“I know, and I shall get there in the end.”
“But not by being of the clever ones. They sit on the lower slopes. They bark—they don’t sing.”
“Up against intellect now?”
“I’m against obvious intellect all the time, because it’s perishable. Look here, I may not make myself clear, but of this I am sure—a great man is not great because he is clever, but he is clever because he is great. The cleverness of the clever is merely an irritant. For a season it may tickle the public palate, but it will never endure.”
“And how does a man become great?”
“By the strength of his ideals. Ideals never perish because they are never wholly realized—besides, they spring from other causes.”
“And what is the fountain of ideals?”
“Feeling—human feeling. Don’t you know that—yet?” He turned a penetrating glance on his nephew. “Never been in love?”
Wynne coloured slightly.
“No,” he replied, “I’ve never been in love.”