“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.”