"Do you inquire what is my need, individually?" I asked, "or do you want my general definition?"
"The latter."
"I think, then, that the first requirement of happiness is work; the second, success."
She sighed.
"I accept your definition," she said, "and hope that you may realize it to the full in your own experience. For myself, I have toiled and failed--sought, and found not. Judge, then, how I came to leave the days uncounted."
The sadness of her attitude, the melancholy import of her words, the abstraction of her manner, filled me with a vague uneasiness.
"Failure is often the forerunner of success," I replied, for want, perhaps, of something better to say.
She shook her head drearily, and stood looking up at the sky, where, every now and then, the moon shone out fitfully between the flying clouds.
"It is not the first time," she murmured, "nor will it be the last--and yet they say that God is merciful."
She had forgotten my presence. These words were not spoken to me, but in answer to her own thoughts. I said nothing, but watched her upturned face. It was pale as the wan moon overhead; thinner than before she went away; and sadder--oh, how much sadder!