“I eat little these days,” he said. “I’m very sick in the morning. I’m just having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit of cheese.”
Philip’s glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeing it, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of common sense.
“You have diagnosed my case, and you think it’s very wrong of me to drink absinthe.”
“You’ve evidently got cirrhosis of the liver,” said Philip.
“Evidently.”
He looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power of making him feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out that what he was thinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with the obvious what more is there to say? Philip changed the topic.
“When are you going back to Paris?”
“I’m not going back to Paris. I’m going to die.”
The very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He thought of half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. He knew that Cronshaw was a dying man.
“Are you going to settle in London then?” he asked lamely.