Again he sipped coffee; again I said I didn’t know; again he launched himself.
“Nothing,” he said; “nothing. There I was at twenty-four doing work I loathed in order to lead a life that bored me. The whole business seemed as pointless as an aquarium without fish. What could I do to make life worth living?”
“Well, what did you do?” I asked.
“First, I analyzed the situation. I always was analytic, you know. Then I decided what I must do. I must have some definite object to work for. I must set some goal for myself.”
He tossed off his coffee with a triumphant air; his eyes sparkled. I signaled for more coffee and looked at him interrogatorily.
“And the goal?” I questioned.
His voice was alive with excitement as he said, “To have a house in the country; to retire and live there and raise roses.”
“You’re pretty young to retire,” I remarked.
“Oh, I won’t be able to do that for years and years,” Appleby said. “I’ll not only have to earn enough for a house but enough to bring me in a modest income.”
“Well, you have your definite object.”