“Oh, no, my dear Herr Eynhardt, those are the mistaken views of gloomy and limited natures who are incapable of recognizing the true object of life.  There are no two ideals of happiness—­there is but one.”

“And that is?”

“To wish for something very, very much—­and get it.”

“Even if it is something foolish?”

“Even then.”

“And even if one should lose if afterward?”

She gazed for a while into the distance in silence and then said firmly—­“Yes, even then.”  And after a pause she added—­“You have, at least, had a moment of absolute happiness—­when you found your wish fulfilled.  And what more do you want?  One only lives to experience such moments.”

“Unfortunately, your theory of happiness does not fit every case.  Where is the happiness to come from for one who has no wishes at all, or who wishes for something unattainable—­perfect understanding, for instance?”

“A human being without a wish—­is there such a thing?”

“Yes, Madame la Comtesse, there is.”

“You perhaps?” she asked quickly.

“Perhaps,” Wilhelm returned.

“Then you are not in love?” she said, and let her brilliant eyes rest upon his melancholy face.

He shook his head gently without looking at her, as if ashamed of the want of gallantry in such a confession.

“But at least you were once?” she persisted eagerly.

“Have I ever really been in love?  Perhaps—­Or no, I do not know myself.”

“Thankless creature!  You hesitate—­you are not sure!  How shameful of you to deny the gods you have once worshiped!  But that is the way with you men.  If you cease to love, you will not admit that you ever had loved.  Tell me, was there ever a moment in your life when you could have answered my question—­’Are you in love?’—­with an unqualified Yes?”

“Yes, I have known such a moment.  But, looking back upon it now—­”

“No, no, you were quite right then and you are wrong now.  That is just your great mistake.  You imagine that one can only love once, and that love, to be real, must last forever.  My poor friend, nothing lasts forever, and the truest love is sometimes as perishable as the loveliest rose—­the most exquisite dream.  But it is not to say that because it is over we are to deny that it ever existed.  You may not feel anything now, but that is no reason for declaring that you did not feel it then.  You thought you were in love, and therefore you were.  It is sophistry to try to persuade oneself of the contrary in after days.”

“You are a brilliant advocate of your views, Madame la Comtesse, but nevertheless may one take a momentary delusion—­”

“Delusion’ And who shall say, my German philosopher, if our whole existence may not be a delusion?”

“Ah, there you drive my philosophy very hard,” murmured Wilhelm.

“Never been in love?” exclaimed the countess, and her lustrous hazel eyes flashed, “why you would be a monster.  I suppose you are nearly thirty’”