“No,” said Léon, “do not say so. Not that. A man with such a nature as yours should not derogate so far. What are a few privations here and there, so long as you are working for a high and noble goal?”
“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs; “but the woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if you come to that.” What he said was different. “I thought you said you were an actor?”
“I certainly did so,” replied Léon. “I am one, or, alas! I was.”
“And so you want me to be an actor, do you?” continued the undergraduate. “Why, man, I could never so much as learn the stuff; my memory’s like a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve no more idea than a cat.”
“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.”