“I don’t know why I should ’ave
such a thing, upon my word I don’t. I’ve
never ’ad a day’s illness in my life.
You’ve only got to look at me to know that.”
She rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long
sweep of her painted eyelashes, and flashed her yellow
teeth at them. She spoke with a cockney accent,
but with an affectation of refinement which made every
word a feast of fun.
“It’s what they call a winter cough,”
answered Dr. Tyrell gravely. “A great many
middle-aged women have it.”
“Well, I never! That is a nice thing to
say to a lady. No one ever called me middle-aged
before.”
She opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head
on one side, looking at him with indescribable archness.
“That is the disadvantage of our profession,”
said he. “It forces us sometimes to be
ungallant.”
She took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious
smile.
“You will come and see me dance, dearie, won’t
you?”
“I will indeed.”
He rang the bell for the next case.
“I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect
me.”
But on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy
nor of comedy. There was no describing it.
It was manifold and various; there were tears and
laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting
and indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was
tumultuous and passionate; it was grave; it was sad
and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and complex;
joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for
their children, and of men for women; lust trailed
itself through the rooms with leaden feet, punishing
the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and wretched
children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable
price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning
of life, filling some poor girl with terror and shame,
was diagnosed there. There was neither good nor
bad there. There were just facts. It was
life.
Towards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing
to a close his three months as clerk in the out-patients’
department, he received a letter from Lawson, who
was in Paris.
Dear Philip,
Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you.
He is living at 43 Hyde Street, Soho. I don’t
know where it is, but I daresay you will be able to
find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit.
He is very down on his luck. He will tell you
what he is doing. Things are going on here very
much as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since
you were here. Clutton is back, but he has become
quite impossible. He has quarrelled with everybody.
As far as I can make out he hasn’t got a cent,
he lives in a little studio right away beyond the
Jardin des Plantes, but he won’t let anybody
see his work. He doesn’t show anywhere,
so one doesn’t know what he is doing. He
may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off
