Philip's charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip was obliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone.
Upjohn told Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not offer to make it possible.
"It's dreadful to think of that great poet alone.
Why, he might die without a soul at hand."
"I think he very probably will," said Philip.
"How can you be so callous!"
"Why don't you come and do your work here every day, and then you'd be near if he wanted anything?" asked Philip drily.
"I?
My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I'm used to, and besides I go out so much."
Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw to his own rooms.
"I wish you had left him in Soho," he said, with a wave of his long, thin hands. "There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic.
I could even bear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of Kennington!
What a place for a poet to die!"
Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temper by remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the disease.
Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw would complain of him bitterly.
Upjohn listened with complacency.
"The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty," he smiled.
"He has a middle-class mind."
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."
Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.
Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle.
"Don't look so angry, my dear.
I know very well you want to do everything you can for me.
Let's see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me, and at any rate it'll comfort you." He turned his eyes to Upjohn. "You're a damned fool, Leonard.
Why d'you want to worry the boy?
He has quite enough to do to put up with me.
You'll do nothing more for me than write a pretty article about me after my death.
I know you."