“The stage is not the only course,” said Léon. “Be a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist; follow your heart, in short, and do some thorough work before you die.” “And do you call all these things _art_?” inquired Stubbs. “Why, certainly!” returned Léon. “Are they not all branches?” “Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the Englishman. “I thought an artist meant a fellow who painted.” The singer stared at him in some surprise. “It is the difference of language,” he said at last. “This Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for it? If I could speak English you would follow me more readily.” “Between you and me, I don’t believe I should,” replied the other. “You seem to have thought a devil of a lot about this business. For my part, I admire the stars, and like to have them shining—it’s so cheery—but hang me if I had an idea it had anything to do with art! It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intellectual; I have no end of trouble to scrape through my exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad sort at bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocutor looked distressed even in the dim starshine, “and I rather like the play, and music, and guitars, and things.” Léon had a perception that the understanding was incomplete. He changed the subject. “And so you travel on foot?” he continued. “How romantic! How courageous! And how are you pleased with my land? How does the scenery affect you among these wild hills of ours?” “Well, the fact is,” began Stubbs—he was about to say that he didn’t care for scenery, which was not at all true, being, on the contrary, only an athletic undergraduate pretension; but he had begun to suspect that Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted something else—“The fact is, I think it jolly. They told me it was no good up here; even the guide-book said so; but I don’t know what they meant. I think it is deuced pretty—upon my word, I do.” At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, Elvira burst into tears. “My voice!” she cried. “Léon, if I stay here longer I shall lose my voice!” “You shall not stay another moment,” cried the actor. “If I have to beat in a door, if I have to burn the town, I shall find you shelter.” With that he replaced the guitar, and comforting her with some caresses, drew her arm through his. “Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking of his hat, “the reception I offer you is rather problematical; but let me beseech you to give us the pleasure of your society. You are a little embarrassed for the moment; you must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be necessary. I ask it as a favour; we must not part so soon after having met so strangely.” “Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t let a fellow like you—” And there he paused, feeling somehow or other on a wrong tack. “I do not wish to employ menaces,” continued Léon, with a smile; “but if you refuse, indeed I shall not take it kindly.”