We dwell in a vale of seesaws--and cobwebs spin fastest upon laurel.

Verman, the tattooed wild boy, speaking only in his native foreign languages, Verman the gay, Verman the caperer, capered no more; he chuckled no more, he beckoned no more, nor tapped his chest, nor wreathed his idolatrous face in smiles.

Gone, all gone, were his little artifices for attracting the general attention to himself; gone was every engaging mannerism which had endeared him to the mercurial public.

He squatted against the wall and glowered at the new sensation.

It was the old story--the old, old story of too much temperament: Verman was suffering from artistic jealousy.
The second audience contained a cash-paying adult, a spectacled young man whose poignant attention was very flattering.