“Oh, what would you?  Often finding.  Often finding.  And losing, of course.—­A life’s history.  Give me your glass.  Miserable tea, but nobody has sent me any from England—­”

“And you will go on till you die, Argyle?” said Lilly.  “Always seeking a friend—­and always a new one?”

“If I lose the friend I’ve got.  Ah, my dear fellow, in that case I shall go on seeking.  I hope so, I assure you.  Something will be very wrong with me, if ever I sit friendless and make no search.”

“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.”