Now it would have been most undignified to tell any one of the folly of my adventure, or to seek to gain their sympathy because it had failed. The real tragedy of failure is not its want of success; it is the knowledge that you may not tell it to a soul. Therefore, I said boldly that I was quite happy, and not so far below my breath as that she might not hear, I hummed the catchy fragment of a tune.
"Then, why are you suddenly going?"
"Because," said I, "there is a difference between a visit and an infliction. I want to be asked again. I don't want to stay on until you really will be glad to see the last of me."
"Why do you talk nonsense to me?" she inquired.
"Do you think I forget things? Do you think I've forgotten what you said to me on the cliffs that day we went to see the cottage?"
"What did I say?"
"'It's not good for man to live alone.' I don't know whether you invented it yourself, but you said it."
"No—that's not mine."
"But you said it?"
"Oh—yes."