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waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not
come in till closing time, so he isn’t in my way at all. We
neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours
of the night by telling me stories of his life. He’s a Swiss, and
I’ve always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an en-
tertaining angle.’
‘How long have you been in bed?’
‘Three days.’
‘D’you mean to say you’ve had nothing but a bottle of
milk for the last three days? Why on earth didn’t you send
me a line? I can’t bear to think of you lying here all day long
without a soul to attend to you.’
Cronshaw gave a little laugh.
‘Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you’re
distressed. You nice fellow.’
Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed
the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and the
wretched circumstances of the poor poet. Cronshaw, watch-
ing Philip, went on with a gentle smile.
‘I’ve been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remem-
ber that I am indifferent to discomforts which would harass
other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your
dreams make you lord paramount of time and space?’
The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the
darkness he had been able to place his hands on them. He
showed them to Philip and his eyes glowed. He turned over
the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he read out a stanza.
‘They don’t look bad, do they?’
Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little ex-

0 Of Human Bondage