"But, Argyle, there is a time to leave off."

"To leave off what, to leave off what?"

"Having friends: or a friend, rather: or seeking to have one."

"Oh, no! Not at all, my friend. Not at all! Only death can make an end of that, my friend. Only death. And I should say, not even death. Not even death ends a man's search for a friend. That is my belief. You may hang me for it, but I shall never alter."

"Nay," said Lilly. "There is a time to love, and a time to leave off loving."

"All I can say to that is that my time to leave off hasn't come yet,"

said Argyle, with obstinate feeling.

"Ah, yes, it has. It is only a habit and an idea you stick to."

"Indeed, it is no such thing. Indeed, it is no such thing. It is a profound desire and necessity: and what is more, a belief."

"An obstinate persistency, you mean," said Lilly.

"Well, call it so if it pleases you. It is by no means so to me." There was a brief pause. The sun had left the cathedral dome and the tower, the sky was full of light, the square swimming in shadow.

"But can a man live," said the Marchese, "without having something he lives for: something he wishes for, or longs for, and tries that he may get?"

"Impossible! Completely impossible!" said Argyle. "Man is a seeker, and except as such, he has no significance, no importance."

"He bores me with his seeking," said Lilly. "He should learn to possess himself--to be himself--and keep still."

"Ay, perhaps so," said Aaron. "Only--"

"But my dear boy, believe me, a man is never himself save in the supreme state of love: or perhaps hate, too, which amounts to the same thing.

Never really himself.--Apart from this he is a tram-driver or a money-shoveller or an idea-machine. Only in the state of love is he really a man, and really himself. I say so, because I know," said Argyle.

"Ah, yes. That is one side of the truth. It is quite true, also. But it is just as true to say, that a man is never less himself, than in the supreme state of love. Never less himself, than then."

"Maybe! Maybe! But what could be better? What could be better than to lose oneself with someone you love, entirely, and so find yourself. Ah, my dear fellow, that is my creed, that is my creed, and you can't shake me in it. Never in that. Never in that."

"Yes, Argyle," said Lilly. "I know you're an obstinate love-apostle."

"I am! I am! And I have certain standards, my boy, and certain ideals which I never transgress. Never transgress. And never abandon."

"All right, then, you are an incurable love-maker."

"Pray God I am," said Argyle.

"Yes," said the Marchese. "Perhaps we are all so. What else do you give?

Would you have us make money? Or do you give the centre of your spirit to your work? How is it to be?"

"I don't vitally care either about money or my work or--" Lilly faltered.

"Or what, then?"

"Or anything. I don't really care about anything. Except that--"

"You don't care about anything? But what is that for a life?" cried the Marchese, with a hollow mockery.

"What do YOU care for?" asked Lilly.

"Me? I care for several things. I care for my wife. I care for love. And I care to be loved. And I care for some pleasures. And I care for music.

And I care for Italy."

"You are well off for cares," said Lilly.

"And you seem to me so very poor," said Del Torre.

"I should say so--if he cares for nothing," interjaculated Argyle. Then he clapped Lilly on the shoulder with a laugh. "Ha! Ha! Ha!--But he only says it to tease us," he cried, shaking Lilly's shoulder. "He cares more than we do for his own way of loving. Come along, don't try and take us in. We are old birds, old birds," said Argyle. But at that moment he seemed a bit doddering.

"A man can't live," said the Italian, "without an object."

"Well--and that object?" said Lilly.

"Well--it may be many things. Mostly it is two things.--love, and money.

But it may be many things: ambition, patriotism, science, art--many things. But it is some objective. Something outside the self. Perhaps many things outside the self."

"I have had only one objective all my life," said Argyle. "And that was love. For that I have spent my life."

"And the lives of a number of other people, too," said Lilly.

"Admitted. Oh, admitted. It takes two to make love: unless you're a miserable--"

"Don't you think," said Aaron, turning to Lilly, "that however you try to get away from it, if you're not after money, and can't fit yourself into a job--you've got to, you've got to try and find something else--somebody else--somebody. You can't really be alone."

"No matter how many mistakes you've made--you can't really be alone--?"

asked Lilly.

"You can be alone for a minute. You can be alone just in that minute when you've broken free, and you feel heart thankful to be alone, because the other thing wasn't to be borne. But you can't keep on being alone. No matter how many tunes you've broken free, and feel, thank God to be alone (nothing on earth is so good as to breathe fresh air and be alone), no matter how many times you've felt this--it wears off every time, and you begin to look again--and you begin to roam round. And even if you won't admit it to yourself, still you are seeking--seeking.

Aren't you? Aren't you yourself seeking?"

"Oh, that's another matter," put in Argyle. "Lilly is happily married and on the shelf. With such a fine woman as Tanny I should think so--RATHER! But his is an exceptional nature, and an exceptional case.

As for me, I made a hell of my marriage, and I swear it nearly sent me to hell. But I didn't forswear love, when I forswore marriage and woman.

Not by ANY means."

"Are you not seeking any more, Lilly?" asked the Marchese. "Do you seek nothing?"

"We married men who haven't left our wives, are we supposed to seek anything?" said Lilly. "Aren't we perfectly satisfied and in bliss with the wonderful women who honour us as wives?"

"Ah, yes, yes!" said the Marchese. "But now we are not speaking to the world. Now we try to speak of that which we have in our centre of our hearts."

"And what have we there?" said Lilly.