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The Button-moulder.
There's an old man, though, trudging. Shall we call him here?
Peer.
No, let him go. He is drunk, my dear fellow!
The Button-moulder.
But perhaps he might
Peer.
Hush; no—let him alone!
The Button-moulder.
Well, shall we begin then?
Peer.
One question—just one:
What is it, at bottom, this "being oneself"?
The Button-moulder.
A singular question, most odd in the mouth
Of a man who but now
Peer.
Come, a straightforward answer.
The Button-moulder.
To be oneself is: to slay oneself.
But on you that answer is doubtless lost;
And therefore we'll say: to stand forth everywhere
With Master's intention displayed like a sign-*board.
