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Philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed
his love affairs. He had passed eighteen months pleasantly
enough, had got an excellent model for nothing, and had
parted from her at the end with no great pang.
‘And what about Cronshaw?’ asked Philip.
‘Oh, he’s done for,’ answered Lawson, with the cheerful
callousness of his youth. ‘He’ll be dead in six months. He
got pneumonia last winter. He was in the English hospital
for seven weeks, and when he came out they told him his
only chance was to give up liquor.’
‘Poor devil,’ smiled the abstemious Philip.
‘He kept off for a bit. He used to go to the Lilas all the
same, he couldn’t keep away from that, but he used to drink
hot milk, avec de la fleur d’oranger, and he was damned
dull.’
‘I take it you did not conceal the fact from him.’
‘Oh, he knew it himself. A little while ago he started on
whiskey again. He said he was too old to turn over any new
leaves. He would rather be happy for six months and die at
the end of it than linger on for five years. And then I think
he’s been awfully hard up lately. You see, he didn’t earn any-
thing while he was ill, and the slut he lives with has been
giving him a rotten time.’
‘I remember, the first time I saw him I admired him
awfully,’ said Philip. ‘I thought he was wonderful. It is sick-
ening that vulgar, middle-class virtue should pay.’
‘Of course he was a rotter. He was bound to end in the
gutter sooner or later,’ said Lawson.
Philip was hurt because Lawson would not see the pity

10 Of Human Bondage