nty 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--"

"So he puts a big man into it?"

"Oh, well, I must see him started."

He spoke simply, as of a thing self-evident and indisputable. Jewdwine
admired.

"You're quite right. You _are_ handicapped. Heavily handicapped. So,
for Goodness' sake, don't weight yourself any more. If you can't drop
the Gin Palace, drop Miss Poppy Grace."

"Poppy Grace? She weighs about as much as a feather."

"Drop her, drop her, all the same."

"I can't. She wouldn't drop. She'd float."

"Don't float with her."

As he rose he spoke slowly and impressively. "What you've got to do
is to pull yourself together. You can't afford to be dissolute, or
even dissipated."

Rickman looked hard at Jewdwine's boots. Irreproachable boots, well
made, well polished, unspotted by the world. And the only
distinguishable word in Rickman's answer was "Life." And as he said
"Life" he blushed like a girl when for the first time she says "Love,"
a blush of rapture and of shame, her young blood sensitive to the
least hint of apathy in her audience.

Jewdwine's apathy was immense.

"Another name for the fugitive actuality," he said. "Well, I'm afraid
I haven't any more time--" He looked round the room a little vaguely,
and as he did so he laid on the young man's shoulder a delicate