“I was rather glad to be rid of him, and I was glad that the next performers, who were a lady and a gentleman contortionist of Spanish-American extraction, behaved more impartially.  They were really remarkable artists in their way, and though it’s a painful way, I couldn’t help admiring their gift in bowknots and other difficult poses.  The gentleman got abundant applause, but the lady at first got none.  I think perhaps it was because, with the correct feeling that prevailed among us, we could not see a lady contort herself with so much approval as a gentleman, and that there was a wound to our sense of propriety in witnessing her skill.  But I could see that the poor girl was hurt in her artist pride by our severity, and at the next thing she did I led off the applause with my umbrella.  She instantly lighted up with a joyful smile, and the young mother in the orchestra leaned forward to nod her sympathy to me while she clapped.  We were fast becoming a domestic circle, and it was very pleasant, but I thought that upon the whole I had better go.”

“And do you think you had a profitable hour at that show?” I asked, with a smile that was meant to be sceptical.

“Profitable?” said my friend.  “I said agreeable.  I don’t know about the profit.  But it was very good variety, and it was very cheap.  I understand that this is the kind of thing you want the two-dollar theatre to come down to, or up to.”

“Not exactly, or not quite,” I returned, thoughtfully, “though I must say I think your time was as well spent as it would have been at most of the plays I have seen this winter.”

My friend left the point, and said, with a dreamy air:  “It was all very pathetic, in a way.  Three out of those five people were really clever, and certainly artists.  That colored brother was almost a genius, a very common variety of genius, but still a genius, with a gift for his calling that couldn’t be disputed.  He was a genuine humorist, and I sorrowed over him—­after I got safely away from his intimacy—­as I should over some author who was struggling along without winning his public.  Why not?  One is as much in the show business as the other.  There is a difference of quality rather than of kind.  Perhaps by-and-by my colored humorist will make a strike with his branch of the public, as you are always hoping to do with yours.”

“You don’t think you’re making yourself rather offensive?” I suggested.

“Not intentionally.  Aren’t the arts one?  How can you say that any art is higher than the others?  Why is it nobler to contort the mind than to contort the body?”

“I am always saying that it is not at all noble to contort the mind,” I returned, “and I feel that to aim at nothing higher than the amusement of your readers is to bring yourself most distinctly to the level of the show business.”

“Yes, I know that is your pose,” said my friend.  “And I dare say you really think that you make a distinction in facts when you make a distinction in terms.  If you don’t amuse your readers, you don’t keep them; practically, you cease to exist.  You may call it interesting them, if you like; but, really, what is the difference?  You do your little act, and because the stage is large and the house is fine, you fancy you are not of that sad brotherhood which aims to please in humbler places, with perhaps cruder means—­”