"There is a good deal, if not of bitterness, of very real disappointment, and some depression."
"Which will be all gone long before the curtain goes up for the next performance."
"Ah, yes, to be sure; but nevertheless you underrate the disappointments of youth,—because they are not tragic you think they are not bitter,—you have always underrated them."
She met his eyes calmly, though he had spoken with a certain emphasis.
"We are talking in a circle," she replied. "That was what I said in the first place—that as we grow older we have more sympathy with defeat."
"You are incorrigible," he said, smiling; "you will accept neither consolation nor reproof."
"Life brings enough of both," she answered; "it does not need to be supplemented by one's friends."
The train was moving very slowly; people were laughing and talking gayly all about them; more lights had come out on the water, and a gentle breeze had suddenly sprung up.
"Just what do you mean by that, I wonder?" he said slowly.
"Not much," she answered lightly. "But I do mean," she added, as he looked away from her, "that, whether it be the consequence of the altruism of the day, or of advancing age, as I said at first, it has grown to be provokingly difficult to ignore those who lose more serious things than a college championship. Verestchagin and such people have spoiled history for us. Who cares who won a great battle now?—it is such a small thing to our consciousness compared to the number of people who were killed—and on one side as well as the other."