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good deal of self-control in his dealings with him. But one
evening he could not contain himself. He had had a hard
day at the hospital and was tired out. Leonard Upjohn came
to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in the
kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Phil-
ip’s insistence that he should have a doctor.
‘Don’t you realise that you’re enjoying a very rare, a very
exquisite privilege? You ought to do everything in your
power, surely, to show your sense of the greatness of your
trust.’
‘It’s a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford,’
said Philip.
Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard
Upjohn assumed a slightly disdainful expression. His sensi-
tive temperament was offended by the reference.
‘There’s something fine in Cronshaw’s attitude, and you
disturb it by your importunity. You should make allowanc-
es for the delicate imaginings which you cannot feel.’
Philip’s face darkened.
‘Let us go in to Cronshaw,’ he said frigidly.
The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a
pipe in his mouth. The air was musty; and the room, not-
withstanding Philip’s tidying up, had the bedraggled look
which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went.
He took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a
towering rage.
‘Upjohn tells me you’ve been complaining to him because
I’ve urged you to have a doctor,’ he said. ‘I want you to have
a doctor, because you may die any day, and if you hadn’t