There they sat down in the bright moonlight and watched the
faint incessant surge of the waters almost stilled now as the
tide set seaward.

"Are you happy?" he asked suddenly.

She nodded.

"Always happy near the sea. You know," she went on, "I've been
thinking all day that you and I are somewhat alike. We're both
rebels--only for different reasons. Two years ago, when I was
just eighteen and you were---"

"Twenty-five."

"---well, we were both conventional successes. I was an utterly
devastating debutante and you were a prosperous musician just
commissioned in the army---"

"Gentleman by act of Congress," he put in ironically.

"Well, at any rate, we both fitted. If our corners were not
rubbed off they were at least pulled in. But deep in us both was
something that made us require more for happiness. I didn't know
what I wanted. I went from man to man, restless, impatient,
month by month getting less acquiescent and more dissatisfied. I
used to sit sometimes chewing at the insides of my mouth and
thinking I was going crazy--I had a frightful sense of
transiency. I wanted things now--now--now! Here I
was--beautiful--I am, aren't I?"