"You mean health! But—I don't feel as I used to feel. Formerly I was a very strong woman, so strong that I often felt as if I were safe from unhappiness, real unhappiness. For Schopenhauer was right, I suppose, and if one's health is perfect, one rises above what are called misfortunes. And, you know, I have had great misfortunes."
"Yes?"
"You must know that."
"Yes."
"I didn't really mind them—not enormously. Even when I was what I suppose nice people called 'ruined'—after my divorce—I was quite able to enjoy life and its pleasures, eating and drinking, travelling, yachting, riding, motoring, theatre-going, gambling, and all that sort of thing. People who are being universally condemned, or pitied, are often having a quite splendid time, you know."
"Just as people who are universally envied are often miserable."
"Exactly. But of late I have begun to—well, to feel different."
"In what way exactly?"
"To feel that my health is no longer perfect enough to defend me against—I might call it ennui."
"Yes?"