“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?”