He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a 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 Philip’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 sensitive temperament was offended by the reference.
“There’s something fine in Cronshaw’s attitude, and you disturb it by your importunity. You should make allowances 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, notwithstanding 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 been seen by anyone I shouldn’t be able to get a certificate. There’d have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for not calling a doctor in.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my sake and not for your own. I’ll see a doctor whenever you like.”