“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.”