“Damn your eyes,” came the colloquial rejoinder—“if you’re not patronizing me!” “Not I. Believe me, I wouldn’t have you different, but perhaps I’ve changed a bit, and these dream pictures aren’t so real as they were.” “Then make ’em real—they’re worth it.” Wynne hesitated, then said: “I’m beginning to see the world as it is, and it doesn’t look like that any longer. I see it as a vast machine built up of cranks and gears, and bolts and cogs—some odd, but mostly even. A thing of wheels and reciprocal activity, for ever revolving and for ever returning to the point from which it started. It’s hard to believe in fairies when one thinks like that.” “Then don’t think like that, or, if you do, think of the energy that moves the machine—that’s where the mystery and the essence lie. The wheels are nothing—it is the power which drives ’em that counts. Why, heavens above! that should be the task for you, and such as you—to find and refine the essence, to know and increase the power. For God’s sake don’t scorn a thing because it goes round, but give it a push that it may revolve faster. That’s the job! and a fine job too. It’s easy to acquire cheap fame by jeering at a man because he goes to bed at night and gets up in the morning—easy—but no good. Give him something to get up early for and sleep the better for; that’s the way to earn your own repose.” “And you were the man who first showed me a satyr,” said Wynne. “And I was the man who told you of the Purple Patch,” came the reply. “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.” “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.