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hour in the morning, and since Philip was obliged to be at
the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohn
told Philip that he thought someone should remain with
him, but did not offer to make it possible.
‘It’s dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he
might die without a soul at hand.’
‘I think he very probably will,’ said Philip.
‘How can you be so callous!’
‘Why don’t you come and do your work here every day,
and then you’d be near if he wanted anything?’ asked Philip
drily.
‘I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings
I’m used to, and besides I go out so much.’
Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had
brought Cronshaw to his own rooms.
‘I wish you had left him in Soho,’ he said, with a wave
of his long, thin hands. ‘There was a touch of romance in
that sordid attic. I could even bear it if it were Wapping or
Shoreditch, but the respectability of Kennington! What a
place for a poet to die!’
Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could
only keep his temper by remembering all the time that this
irritability was a symptom of the disease. Upjohn came
sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw would
complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacen-
cy.
‘The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty,’ he smiled.
‘He has a middle-class mind.’
He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a

Of Human Bondage