Things had been simpler in the earlier days of their acquaintance, when the counter stood between them, and formed a firm natural barrier to closer intercourse.  Nobody, not even Jewdwine, knew what that handshake across the counter had meant for Rickman; how his soul had hungered and thirsted for Jewdwine’s society; how, in “the little rat’ole in the City,” it had consumed itself with longing.  It was his first great passion, a passion that waited upon chance; to be gratified for five minutes, ten minutes at the most.  Once Jewdwine had hung about the shop for half an hour talking; the interview being broken by Rickman’s incessant calls to the counter.  Once, they had taken a walk together down Cheapside, which from that moment became a holy place.  Then came the day when, at Jewdwine’s invitation, Helen in Leuce travelled down from London to Oxford, and from Oxford to Harmouth.  Her neo-classic beauty appealed to Jewdwine’s taste (and to the taste of Jewdwine’s cousin); he recognized in Rickman a disciple, and was instantly persuaded of his genius.  At one bound Rickman had leapt the barrier of the counter; and here he was, enthusiastic and devoted.  To be sure, his devotion was not fed largely upon praise; for, unlike the younger man, Jewdwine admired but sparingly.  Neither was it tainted with any thought of material advantage.  Jewdwine was very free with his criticism and advice; but, beyond these high intellectual aids, it never occurred to Rickman that he had anything to gain by Jewdwine’s friendship.  Discipleship is the purest of all human relations.

Jewdwine divined this purity, and was touched by it.  He prepared to accept a certain amount of responsibility.  He looked at his watch.  He could still get to Hampstead by eight o’clock, if he took a cab—­say,—­twenty minutes.  He could spare him another ten.  The Junior Journalists were coming back from their dinner and the room would soon be crowded.  He took his disciple’s arm in a protecting manner and steered him into a near recess.  He felt that the ten minutes he was about to give him would be decisive in the young man’s career.

“You’ve still got to find your formula.  Not to have found your formula,” he said solemnly, “is not to have found yourself.”

“Perhaps I haven’t been looking in very likely places,” said Rickman, nobly touched, as he always was by the more personal utterances of the master.

“The Jubilee Variety Theatre, for instance.  Do you go there to find the ideal, or in pursuit of the fugitive actuality?”

“Whichever you like to call it.  Its name on the programme is Miss Poppy Grace.”

“Look here, Rickman,” said Jewdwine, gently; “when are you going to give up this business?”

“Which business?”

“Well, at the moment I referred to your situation in the Gin Palace of Art—­”

“I can’t chuck it just yet.  There’s my father, you see.  It would spoil all his pleasure in that new plate-glass and mahogany devilry.  He’s excited about it; wants to make it a big thing—­”