Fielding’s mind did not wander long from his companion.  “Let me see,” said he, “do you follow any trade or profession?” He added with a smile, “besides your own?”

“I’m a journalist.”  Rickman mentioned his connection with The Museion and The Planet.

“Ah, I knew there was an unlucky star somewhere.  Well, at any rate, you won’t have to turn your Muse on to the streets to get your living.  But a trade’s better than a profession; and a craft’s better than a trade.  It doesn’t monopolize the higher centres.  I certainly had the impression that you had been in trade.”

Rickman wondered who could have given it to him.  Miss Gurney’s friend, he supposed.  But who was Miss Gurney’s friend?  A hope came to him that made his heart stand still.  But he answered calmly.

“I was.  I worked for two years in a second-hand bookshop as a bibliographical expert; and before that I stood behind the counter most of my time.”

“Why did you leave it?  You weren’t ashamed of your trade?”

“Not of my trade, but of the way I had to follow it.  I’m not ashamed of working for Mr. Horace Jewdwine.”

He brought the name in awkwardly.  In bringing it in at all he had some vague hope that it might lead Fielding to disclose the identity of the friend.  Horace Jewdwine was a link; if his name were familiar to Fielding there would be no proof perhaps, but a very strong presumption that what he hoped was true.

“He is a friend of yours?”

“Yes.”  His hope leapt high; but Fielding dashed it to the ground.

“I never heard of him.  I see,” he said, “you’ve got a conscience.  Have you also got a wife?”

“Not yet—­but—­”

“Good.  So young a man as you cannot afford to keep both.  I am so old that I may be pardoned if I give you some advice.  But why should I?  You won’t take it.”

“I should like to hear it all the same, sir.”

“Well, well, it’s cheap enough.  Whatever you do, don’t fritter yourself away upon the sort of women it may be your misfortune to have met.”

It was beautifully done, this first intimation of his consciousness of any difference between them; between Rickman who had glorified a variety actress, and Walter Fielding whose Muse had “always had the manners of an English gentlewoman.”  And to Rickman’s heart, amid vivid images of Poppies and Flossies, the memory of Lucia Harden stirred like a dividing sword.

“That is my advice,” said Fielding.  “But you will not take it.”

“These things,” said Rickman, “are not always in our power.”

In the silence which followed he put the question that was burning in him.

“May I ask who the friend was who told Miss Gurney about me?”

“You may ask Miss Gurney; but I do not think she’ll tell you.  It seems to be a secret, and Miss Gurney, strange to say, is a young woman who can keep a secret.”