“Why, yes,” said Father Payne, “but Vinter was a wise old man; now I should say to any young man who had a chance of really having a friendship with a great man, ‘Of course, take it and thank your stars!’ But I shouldn’t advise any young man to make a collection of celebrities, or to go about hunting them.  In fact I think for an original young man, it is apt to be rather dangerous to have a real friendship with a great man.  There’s a danger of being diverted from your own line, and of being drawn into imitative worship.  A very moderate use of great men in person should suffice anyone.  Your real friends ought to be people with whom you are entirely at ease, not people whom you reverence and defer to.  It’s better to learn to bark than to wag your tail.  I don’t think the big men themselves often begin by being disciples.”

“Then who is worth seeing?” said Vincent.  “There must be somebody!”

“Why, to be frank,” said Father Payne, “agreeable men like me, who haven’t got too much authority, and are not surrounded by glory and worship!  I’m interested in most things, and have learnt more or less how to talk—­you look out for ingenious and kindly elderly men, who haven’t been too successful, and haven’t frozen into Tories, and yet have had some experience;—­men of humour and liveliness, who have a rather more extended horizon than yourself, and who will listen to what you say instead of shutting you up, and saying ‘Very likely’ as Newman did—­after which you were expected to go into a corner and think over your sins!  Or clever, sympathetic, interesting women—­not too young.  Those are the people whom it is worth taking a little trouble to see.”

“But what about the young people!” said Vincent.

“Oh, that will look after itself,” said Father Payne.  “There’s no difficulty about that!  You asked me whom it was worth while taking some trouble to see, and I prescribe a very occasional great man, and a good many well-bred, cultivated, experienced, civil men and women.  It isn’t very easy to find, that sort of society, for a young man; but it is worth trying for.”

“But do you mean that you should pursue good talk?” said Vincent.

“A little, I think,” said Father Payne; “there’s a good deal of art in it—­unconscious art in England, probably—­but much of our life is spent in talking, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t learn how to get the best and the most out of talk—­how to start a subject, and when to drop it—­how to say the sort of things which make other people want to join in, and so on.  Of course you can’t learn to talk unless you have a lot to say, but you can learn how to do it, and better still how not to do it.  I used to feel in the old days, when I met a clever man—­it was rare enough, alas!—­how much more I could have got out of him if I had known how to do the trick.  It’s a great pleasure, good talk; and the fact that it is so tiring shows what a real pleasure it must be.