I thought perhaps you might know an actor." "I do--one or two," replied Rowlatt; "but they're just ordinary actors--not managers; and I shouldn't think they'd be able to do anything for you." "Except what I say," Paul persisted.

"They'll tell me how one sets about being an actor." Rowlatt scribbled a couple of introductions on visiting cards, and Paul went away satisfied.

He called on the two actors.

The first, in atrabiliar mood, advised him to sweep crossings, black shoes, break stones by the roadside, cart manure, sell tripe or stocks and shares, blow out his brains rather than enter a profession over whose portals was inscribed the legend, Lasciate ogni speranza--he snapped his finger and thumb to summon memory as if it were a dog.
"Voi che intrate," continued Paul, delighted at showing off the one Italian tag he had picked up from his reading.

And filled with one of the purest joys of the young literary life and therefore untouched by pessimistic counsel, he left the despairing actor.
The second, a brighter and more successful man, talked with Paul for a long time about all manner of things.