"Yes."
"Then it is a Renault.
But listen now, here comes something real, A Lancia.
I bet he's chasing the other two like a wolf after a couple of sheep.
Just listen to the engine.
Like an organ."
The car swept by.
"I suppose you know more than three names there?" asked Pat.
"Of course.
And they are right, what's more."
She laughed.
"Isn't that really sad, or not?"
"Not at all sad.
Only natural.
To me a good car is preferable to twenty fields of flowers."
"Unregenerate son of the twentieth century I I suppose you're not at all sentimental."
"Oh, yes, you just heard: over cars."
She looked at me.
"Me, too," said she.
Out of the fir trees a cuckoo called.
Pat started to count.
"Why do you do that?"
"Don't you know?
As often as he calls, so many years will you live."
"Ach, so, yes.
But there's another one.
When a cuckoo calls, shake your money.
Then it will multiply."
I took my loose change from my pocket and shook it vigorously in my cupped hands.
"Just like you," said Pat laughing. "I want life and you want money."
"In order to live," I replied. "A true idealist strives for money.
Money is mental freedom.
And freedom is life."
"Fourteen," counted Pat. "I've heard you talk differently about it before now."
"That was in my dark time.
One shouldn't talk scornfully about money.
It's money brings many a woman a lover.
Love on the other hand makes many a man avaricious.
Money therefore furthers the ideal—love versus materialism."
"This is your good day," observed Pat. "Thirty-five." "The man" I went on, "only becomes avaricious as a result of the woman's desires.
If there wereh't women there wouldn't be money, and the men would be a race of heroes.
In the trenches there were no women—it didn't count for much there, either, how well off a man was.
It came back to what he was as a man.
And that's not to say anything for the trenches; that's only to show love up in its true light.
It rouses the evil instincts in man—the urge to possession, standing, profits, comfort.
It's not for nothing dictators like to see their subordinates married—that way they are less dangerous.
And not for nothing do Catholic priests have no wives—they would never be such bold missionaries otherwise."
"This is a really marvellous day for you," said Pat gratefully. "Fifty-two."
I put my money back into my pocket and lit a cigarette.
"Wouldn't you like to stop counting soon?" I asked. "You'll be going well over seventy if you're not careful."