“He must be mad.  And is he a success?” asked Austin.

“Judge for yourself—­you’ve just been seeing him,” replied St Aubyn.  “Though, of course, his name is no more Buskin than yours or mine.”

“Good Heavens!” cried the boy.  “And Mr Buskin was—­all that?”

“He was all that,” responded the other.  “It was rather painful for me to see him this evening in his present state, as you may imagine.  As to his being successful in a monetary sense, I really cannot tell you.  But, to do him justice, I don’t think he cares for money in the very least.  So long as he makes two ends meet he’s quite satisfied.  All he cares about is painting his face, and dressing himself up, and ranting, and getting rounds of applause.  And, so far, he certainly has his reward.  His highest ambition, it is true, he has not yet attained.  If he could only get his portrait published in a halfpenny paper wearing some new-shaped stock or collar that the hosiers were anxious to bring into fashion, he would feel that there was little left to live for.  But that is a distinction reserved for actors who stand at the tip-top of their profession, and I’m afraid that poor Buskin has but little chance of ever realising his aspiration.”

“Are you serious?” said Austin, open-eyed.

“Absolutely,” replied St Aubyn.  “I know it for a fact.”

“Well,” exclaimed Austin, fetching a deep breath, “of course if a man has to do this sort of thing for a living—­if it’s his only way of making money—­I don’t think I despise him so much.  But if he does it because he loves it, loves it better than any other earthly thing, then I despise him with all my heart and soul.  I cannot conceive a more utterly unworthy existence.”

“And to such an existence our friend Buskin has sacrificed his whole career,” replied St Aubyn, gravely.

“What a tragedy,” observed the boy.

“Yes; a tragedy,” agreed the other.  “A truer tragedy than the imitation one that he’s been acting in, if he could only see it.  Well, here is my turning.  Good-night!  I’m very glad we met.  Come and see me soon.  I’m not going away again.”

Then Austin, left alone, stumped thoughtfully along the country road.  The sweet smell of the flowery hedges pervaded the night air, and from the fields on either side was heard ever and anon the bleating of some wakeful sheep.  How peaceful, how reposeful, everything was!  How strong and solemn the great trees looked, standing here and there in the wide meadows under the moonlight and the stars!  And what a contrast—­oh, what a contrast—­was the beauty of these calm pastoral scenes to the tawdry gorgeousness of those other “scenes” he had been witnessing, with their false effects, and coloured fires, and painted, spouting occupants!  There was no need for him to argue the question any more, even with himself.  It was as clear as the moon in the steel-blue sky above him that the associations of the theatre were totally, hopelessly, and radically incompatible with the ideals of the Daphnis life.