The play went on, and Sardanapalus showed no signs of moral improvement.  In fact, it soon became evident that his code of ethics was deplorable, and Austin could only console himself with the thought that the real Mr Buskin was, no doubt, a most virtuous and respectable person who never gave Mrs Buskin—­if there was one—­any grounds for jealousy.  Then the first act came to an end, the lights went up, and a subdued buzz of conversation broke out all over the theatre.  The second act was even more exciting, as Sardanapalus, having previously confessed himself unable to go on multiplying empires, was forced to interfere in a scuffle between his brother-in-law and Arbaces—­who was by way of being a traitor; but the most sensational scene of all was the banquet in act the third, of which so glowing an account had been given to Austin by the great tragedian himself.  That, indeed, was something to remember.

                  “Guests, to my pledge! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to
The safety of the King—­the monarch, say I? 
The god Sardanapalus! mightier than
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus!”

          
                                        [Thunder.  Confusion.]

Ah, that was thrilling, if you like, in spite of the halting rhythm.  And yet, even at that supreme moment, the vision of the umbrella and the rather shabby hat would crop up again, and Austin didn’t quite know whether to let himself be thrilled or to lean back and roar.  The conspiracy burst out a few minutes afterwards, and then there ensued a most terrifying and portentous battle, rioters and loyalists furiously attempting to kill each other by the singular expedient of clattering their swords together so as to make as much noise as possible, and then passing them under their antagonists’ armpits, till the stage was heaped with corpses; and all this bloody work entirely irrespective of the valuable glass and china on the supper-table, and the costly hearthrugs strewn about the floor.  Even Sardanapalus, having first looked in the glass to make sure that his helmet was straight, performed prodigies of valour, and the curtain descended to his insatiable shouting for fresh weapons and a torrent of tumultuous applause from the gallery.

“Now for it!” said Austin to himself, when another act had been got through, in the course of which Sardanapalus had suffered from a distressing nightmare.  He took Mr Buskin’s card out of his pocket, and, hurrying out as fast as he could manage, stumped his way round to the stage door.  Cerberus would fain have stopped him, but Austin flourished his card in passing, and enquired of the first civil-looking man he met where the manager was to be found.  He was piloted through devious ways and under strange scaffoldings, to the foot of a steep and very dirty flight of steps—­luckily there were only seven—­at the top of which was dimly visible a door; and at this, having screwed his courage to the sticking-place, he knocked.