ugged her shoulders.

"Fear not, madam," he said heavily. "I have passed the age when I am
tempted by forty-five and gratitude."

He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. He
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"He talked very well."

Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw's remark was an answer to the
question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesday
evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and
discoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him.
Cronshaw had evidently been there lately.

"He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked about art as
though it were the most important thing in the world."

"If it isn't, what are we here for?" asked Philip.

"What you're here for I don't know. It is no business of mine. But art is
a luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the
propagation of their species. It is only when these instincts are
satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment
which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets."

Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty years
the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he
loved conversation because it made him thirsty.

Then he said: "I wrote a poem yesterday."

Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythm
with an extended forefinger. It was possibly a very fine poem, but at that
moment a young woman came in. She had scarlet lips, and it was plain that
the vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she
had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold
blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. It was
fantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion
made popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip's eyes wandered to her, and
Cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him
indulgently.

"You were not listening," he said.

"Oh yes, I was."

"I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the
statement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect and applaud your
indifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretricious
charms of this young person."

She passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took her arm.

"Come and sit by my side, dear child, and let