“Then be in love.”
“But that’s rather—”
“No it ain’t. You must be in love—it’s God’s great education to mankind. A man knows nothing of himself, or of anything else, unless he is a lover. Happy—wretched—sacred or profane—love is the mighty teacher. What the devil d’you mean by never having been in love?”
Wynne laughed. “Couldn’t I ask the same question of you?” he asked.
“No, you couldn’t, for I always am. Ah, I may not be married—and that is a great blessing for some poor dear unknown—but I’m always in love. Sometimes it’s a girl with whom I have never exchanged a word, sometimes a dead queen or a goddess of ancient times, and sometimes in silly, sordid ways which lonely men will follow. But the spark of love that is, or the spark of a love that was, I keep for ever burning. What sort of life do you imagine mine would be without it?”
“Isn’t there a difference,” said Wynne. “You’re not a striver—you are content—”
“Yes, I’m a loafer—a dilettante—who whistles his song of praise in the country lanes—but—”
“The country lanes are the lover’s lanes; there is no time for love in the great highways. How does the line go? ‘He travels fastest who travels alone.’ ”
Uncle Clem rose and, stretching out a hand, pulled Wynne to his feet.
“He may travel fast,” he said, “but he don’t get so far. Come on! What do you think—lunch chez Fouquet?”