No wonder a boy like this was voted unsociable.  No wonder Sandy and Jock despised him as a muff, and the young ladies deplored his unaccountably elusive ways.  The truth was that Austin simply had no use for any of them; his life was complete without them, it contained no niche into which they could ever fit.  Lubin was a far more congenial comrade.  Lubin never bothered him about football, or cricket, or horse-racing, never worried him with invitations to horrible picnics, never outraged his sensibilities in any way.  On the contrary, Lubin rather contributed to his happiness by the care he took of the flowers, and the intelligence he showed in carrying out all Austin’s elaborately conveyed instructions.  Why, Lubin himself was a sort of Daphnis—­in a humble way.  But Sandy!  No, Austin was not equal to putting up with Sandy.

There was, however, one gentleman in the neighbourhood whom Master Austin was gracious enough to approve.  This was a certain Mr Roger St Aubyn, a man of taste and culture, who possessed a very rare collection of fine pictures and old engravings which nobody had ever seen.  St Aubyn was, in fact, something of a recluse, a student who seldom went beyond his park gates, and found his greatest pleasure in reading Greek and cultivating orchids.  It was by the purest accident that the two came across each other.  Austin was lying one afternoon on a bank of wild hyacinths just outside Combe Spinney, lazily admiring the effect of his bright black leg against the bright blue sky, and thinking of nothing in particular.  Mr St Aubyn, who happened to be strolling in that direction, was attracted by the unwonted spectacle, and ventured on some good-humoured quizzical remark.  This led to a conversation, in the course of which the scholar thought he discovered certain original traits in the modest observations of the youth.  One topic drifted into another, and soon the two were engaged in an animated discussion about pursuits in life.  It was in the course of this that Austin let drop the one word—­Art.

“What is Art?” queried St Aubyn.

Austin hesitated for some moments.  Then he said, very slowly: 

“That is a question to which a dozen answers might be given.  A whole book would be required to deal with it.”

St Aubyn was delighted, both at the reply and at the hesitation that had preceded it.

“And are you an artist?” he enquired.

“I believe I am,” replied Austin, very seriously.  “Of course one doesn’t like to be too confident, and I can’t draw a single line, but still——­”

“Good again,” approved the other.  “Here as in everything else all depends upon the definition.  What is an artist?”

“An artist,” exclaimed Austin, kindling, “is one who can see the beauty everywhere.”

“The beauty?” repeated St Aubyn.