'We're human beings--and more than that, we're nineteenth century human beings. Love is not everything. It is a part of one--perhaps the lower part--an accessory to man's life, needful for the continuation of the species.' 'You use such difficult words, my dear.' 'There is something higher and nobler and purer than love--there is friendship. Ferdinand White is my friend. I have the amplest confidence in him. I am certain that no unclean thought has ever entered his head.' She spoke quite heatedly, and as she flushed up, the old painter thought her astonishingly handsome. Then she added as an afterthought,-- 'We despise passion. Passion is ugly; it is grotesque.' The painter stroked his imperial and faintly smiled. 'My child, you must permit me to tell you that you are foolish. Passion is the most lovely thing in the world; without it we should not paint beautiful pictures. It is passion that makes a woman of a society lady; it is passion that makes a man even of--an art critic.' 'We do not want it,' she said. 'We worship Venus Urania. We are all spirit and soul.' 'You have been reading Plato; soon you will read Zola.' He smiled again, and lit another cigarette. 'Do you disapprove of my going?' she asked after a little silence. He paused and looked at her. Then he shrugged his shoulders. 'On the contrary, I approve. It is foolish, but that is no reason why you should not do it. After all, folly is the great attribute of man. No judge is as grave as an owl; no soldier fighting for his country flies as rapidly as the hare. You may be strong, but you are not so strong as a horse; you may be gluttonous, but you cannot eat like a boa-constrictor. But there is no beast that can be as foolish as man. And since one should always do what one can do best--be foolish. Strive for folly above all things. Let the height of your ambition be the pointed cap with the golden bells. So, _bon voyage!_ I will come and see you off to-morrow.' The painter arrived at the station with a box of sweets, which he handed to Valentia with a smile. He shook Ferdinand's hand warmly and muttered under his breath,-- 'Silly fool! he's thinking of friendship, too!' Then, as the train steamed out, he waved his hand and cried,-- 'Be foolish! Be foolish!' He walked slowly out of the station, and sat down at a _cafe_. He lit a cigarette, and, sipping his absinthe, said,-- 'Imbeciles!' III They arrived at Amsterdam in the evening, and, after dinner, gathered together their belongings and crossed the Ij as the moon shone over the waters; then they got into the little steam tram and started for Monnickendam. They stood side by side on the platform of the carriage and watched the broad meadows bathed in moonlight, the formless shapes of the cattle lying on the grass, and the black outlines of the mills; they passed by a long, sleeping canal, and they stopped at little, silent villages. At last they entered the dead town, and the tram put them down at the hotel door.