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."