“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.”