stinate 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