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willing to give L300.
Yours ever,
Frederick Lawson.
Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the fol-
lowing letter. It was written on a half-sheet of common
note-paper, and the flimsy envelope was dirtier than was
justified by its passage through the post.
Dear Carey,
Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I
had some part in rescuing you from the Slough of Despond
in which myself am hopelessly immersed. I shall be glad to
see you. I am a stranger in a strange city and I am buffeted
by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of Paris. I do
not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a
magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of
Monsieur Purgon’s profession, but you will find me eating
modestly any evening between seven and eight at a restau-
rant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean Street.
Your sincere
J. Cronshaw.
Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant,
consisting of one small room, was of the poorest class, and
Cronshaw seemed to be its only customer. He was sitting
in the corner, well away from draughts, wearing the same
shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him without,
with his old bowler on his head.
‘I eat here because I can be alone,’ he said. ‘They are not
doing well; the only people who come are a few trollops and
one or two waiters out of a job; they are giving up business,

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