A man had a job putting the points back on old arguments. When, for instance, a particularly aged theory had been rather obviously blunted by some more modern, more aptly pointed enemy, he could, in a brew of well-steeped opinions, philosophies, religions, apostrophes, and semantics, restore the point somewhat. Knowing this I took him my old ragged love, the one whose piercing had ceased to move even me. I showed him this poor, blunted, unlucky love of mine and he said, “O this one is easy,” and began to mix up a batch of old poetry and high romance. When he had steeped it to a froth, he thrust my old utterly pointless love into it and waited. Finding on withdrawal that it was still blunt, he held it for a while, puzzled, over a fire made from the desires of many thirsty men in deserts. Then he hammered it with a metal made of loneliness. With a knife of empty nights he hacked. But still it remained intolerably, impenetrably dull and blunted, so he returned it to me. “A man’s love,” he said, “must be as pointed as his tongue. It must have the same direction as his hands and mouth. It must pierce all distances and agonies, overcome all enemies. Yours obviously is of an inferior quality. It hasn’t even stood the ardours of your poor little life. Pity humanity if this is the one strong thing that comes from it.” Thus chided, I went outside jingling the cash in my pockets. “At last!” I said to myself. “At last I am ready for business.”