“Yes, but which section of it?” she persisted, with a cold little laugh. “For instance,—the mothers of the Assyrian race seem to have rather wasted their energies! What has become of that race which they bore, bred and fostered? Where is the glory of those past peoples? What was the use of them? They have left nothing but burnt bricks and doubtful records!”
“True!—but Destiny has strange methods, and their existence may have been necessary.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I fail to see it!” she said. “To me it all seems waste—wanton, wicked waste. Man lives in some wrong, mistaken way—the real joy of life must be to dwell on earth like a ray of light, warming and fructifying all things unconsciously—coming from the sun and returning again to the sun, never losing a moment of perfect splendour!”
“But, to have no consciousness is death,” said Dimitrius. “A ray of light is indifferent to joy. Consciousness with intelligence makes happiness.”
She was silent.
“You are well?” he asked, gently.
“Perfectly!”
“And happy?”
“I suppose so.”