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LXXXII

owards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing
Tto a close his three months as clerk in the out-patients’
department, he received a letter from Lawson, who was in
Paris.
Dear Philip,
Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you.
He is living at 43 Hyde Street, Soho. I don’t know where it
is, but I daresay you will be able to find out. Be a brick and
look after him a bit. He is very down on his luck. He will tell
you what he is doing. Things are going on here very much as
usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here.
Clutton is back, but he has become quite impossible. He
has quarrelled with everybody. As far as I can make out he
hasn’t got a cent, he lives in a little studio right away beyond
the Jardin des Plantes, but he won’t let anybody see his work.
He doesn’t show anywhere, so one doesn’t know what he is
doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may
be off his head. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other
day. He was showing Mrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He
has chucked art and is now in popper’s business. He seems
to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I’m trying to
work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me?
I don’t want to frighten them, and then on the other hand
I don’t want to be such an ass as to ask L150 if they’re quite

0 Of Human Bondage