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 of sordid fact, one conserves energy for the promulgation of one's private version of the truth."

"But that's cheating!"

"If you leave all the cheating to fate, what ghost of a chance have you to survive!"

"There are destinies more glorious than mere survival!"

Paul smiled sympathetically. "I used to think so—passionately. Now I honestly wonder."

"Oh well, just because you've lost faith is no reason for expecting me to!"

"Certainly not." This was sincere. "If you can win the battle I've lost, so much the better. As it is, I'm cheering for you—albeit half sceptically."

The youth for the first time was lifted from his egoistic morass. "I say!" he exclaimed. "I believe your sceptical warnings are worth more than some men's headlong partisanship. You really have been through the mill, I dare say."

"I have, and it grinds, exceeding small. That's why I wish to help you."

The poet had a twinge of conscience. "Oh, let's forget me. I was spoiled as a child."

"Then, no wonder you expect so much!"

"I do expect a lot, God help me!"

"Even from God!" Paul laughed.

"Rather only from God. Mortals can't do much for you, except in the way of food and clothing."

"That's something."

"You mean it's more than I'm disposed to acknowledge?"

"Yes."

Paul watched the sensitive mouth harden in scorn for a poverty which was imminent and abject.

"What are your plans?" he asked after some desultory talk.