The shopman wore a gradually clearing expression, which would have led those unsympathetic with the cause of the Red Lion to think that the last sentence was the only one to which he had attached any meaning.
"I am rather old to go into a new business," he said, "and I don't quite know what to be, either."
"Why not," said Wayne, gently having reached the crisis of his delicate persuasion—"why not be a colonel?"
It was at this point, in all probability, that the interview began to yield more disappointing results. The man appeared inclined at first to regard the suggestion of becoming a colonel as outside the sphere of immediate and relevant discussion. A long exposition of the inevitable war of independence, coupled with the purchase of a doubtful sixteenth-century sword for an exaggerated price, seemed to resettle matters. Wayne left the shop, however, somewhat infected with the melancholy of its owner.
That melancholy was completed at the barber's.
"Shaving, sir?" inquired that artist from inside his shop.
"War!" replied Wayne, standing on the threshold.
"I beg your pardon," said the other, sharply.
"War!" said Wayne, warmly. "But not for anything inconsistent with the beautiful and the civilised arts. War for beauty. War for society. War for peace. A great chance is offered you of repelling that slander which, in defiance of the lives of so many artists, attributes poltroonery to those who beautify and polish the surface of our lives. Why should not hairdressers be heroes? Why should not—"
"Now, you get out," said the barber, irascibly. "We don't want any of your sort here. You get out."