But was he sure?
Savage Rickman was young, and youth is deceptive.

Supposing he--Jewdwine--was deceived?
Supposing the genius were to elude him, leaving him saddled with the man?
What on earth should he do with him?
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.