The next friend whose acquaintance I renewed was Dan. He occupied chambers in the Temple, and one evening a week or two after the 'Ortensia marriage, I called upon him. Nothing in his manner of greeting me suggested the necessity of explanation. Dan never demanded anything of his friends beyond their need of him. Shaking hands with me, he pushed me down into the easy-chair, and standing with his back to the fire, filled and lighted his pipe.
“I left you alone,” he said. “You had to go through it, your slough of despond. It lies across every path—that leads to anywhere. Clear of it?”
“I think so,” I replied, smiling.
“You are on the high road,” he continued. “You have only to walk steadily. Sure you have left nothing behind you—in the slough?”
“Nothing worth bringing out of it,” I said. “Why do you ask so seriously?”
He laid his hand upon my head, rumpling my hair, as in the old days.
“Don't leave him behind you,” he said; “the little boy Paul—Paul the dreamer.”
I laughed. “Oh, he! He was only in my way.”
“Yes, here,” answered Dan. “This is not his world. He is of no use to you here; won't help you to bread and cheese—no, nor kisses either. But keep him near you. Later, you will find, perhaps, that all along he has been the real Paul—the living, growing Paul; the other—the active, worldly, pushful Paul, only the stuff that dreams are made of, his fretful life a troubled night rounded by a sleep.”
“I have been driving him away,” I said. “He is so—so impracticable.”