Happy Fielding, thought Rickman. Fielding had never suffered as he had suffered; _his_ dream had never been divorced from reality. It seemed fitting to the younger poet that his god should inhabit these pure and lofty spaces, should walk thus on golden roads through a land of crimson, in an atmosphere of crystal calm. He would have liked to talk to Fielding of Fielding; but his awe restrained him. 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?"