“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?” They made a very excellent déjeuner at the pleasant little restaurant under the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, and when it was over, and Uncle Clem had produced two delicate Havana cheroots, the conversation turned to Wynne’s future. “You’ve done enough of this waiting business,” he said. “Better come back with me at the end of the week.” “Sorry,” said Wynne, “but it won’t run to it yet.” “Well, I’m your uncle—so that’s that, ain’t it?” “It’s that as far as the relationship goes, but no farther.” “D’you mean you won’t be helped?” “Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.” “But look here—” “Don’t make me,” pleaded Wynne. “It would be so easy that way.” “But it’s all nonsense. You’ve proved your mettle—no harm relaxing a trifle.” “I have proved my mettle to the extent of being a waiter,” said Wynne, “and that isn’t as far as I want my mettle to carry me.” “You might be here for years.” “Perhaps. It will be my fault if I am. I have to prove my right to climb. Help would disprove it.” “’Pon my soul I admire your pluck.” “It’s all you do admire, isn’t it?” “Ah, get away with you! I talk a lot, that’s all; but I’ve a mighty strong conviction that you’ll do.” “I’ll do _and_ do,” said Wynne. “Maybe you won’t approve, but I hope you will.” “I hope so, and believe so—for the elements are yours—but I shan’t tell you so if I don’t.” With which somewhat cryptic remark they parted. Wynne had not gone very far down the street, however, before he was overtaken by a somewhat breathless Uncle Clem, who said: “But, for God’s sake, fall in love if you can.” PART FOUR THE PEN AND THE BOARDS I The manner of Wynne’s return to England was fortuitous. It resulted from the remark of a chance customer at the little restaurant. “I wish to heaven you’d come right down to one of my rehearsals, young man, and show the Gordam idiot I’ve engaged how a waiter waits.”