Captain Blunt? You couldn't, you know. You are too young."
"I don't want to model myself on anybody," I said. "And anyway Blunt is too romantic; and, moreover, he has been and is yet in love with you--a thing that requires some style, an attitude, something of which I am altogether incapable."
"You know it isn't so stupid, this what you have just said. Yes, there is something in this."
"I am not stupid," I protested, without much heat.
"Oh, yes, you are. You don't know the world enough to judge. You don't know how wise men can be. Owls are nothing to them. Why do you try to look like an owl? There are thousands and thousands of them waiting for me outside the door: the staring, hissing beasts. You don't know what a relief of mental ease and intimacy you have been to me in the frankness of gestures and speeches and thoughts, sane or insane, that we have been throwing at each other. I have known nothing of this in my life but with you. There had always been some fear, some constraint, lurking in the background behind everybody, everybody--except you, my friend."
"An unmannerly, Arcadian state of affairs. I am glad you like it. Perhaps it's because you were intelligent enough to perceive that I was not in love with you in any sort of style."
"No, you were always your own self, unwise and reckless and with something in it kindred to mine, if I may say so without offence."
"You may say anything without offence. But has it never occurred to your sagacity that I just, simply, loved you?"
