'
'Would you go as far as that?' said the Wise Man, politely.
'Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. She
tells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well,
she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make of
that? And here's another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that my
wife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seen
them all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literally
marooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain.
What do you make of it?'
The Wise Man stroked his beard.
'My son,' he said, 'the matter is simple. True love takes no account of
looks.'
'No?' said Agravaine.
'You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing.
Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d'you-call-its.'
'I'm beginning to see,' said Agravaine.
'What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He plays
odd tricks with the eyesight.'
'Yes,' said Agravaine.
'Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He
takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine.'
'I get you,' said Agravaine.
The Wise Man began to warm to his work.
'Or shall we say--'
'I think I must be going,' said Agravaine.
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