midnight
I went to a window and looked out . The moon was rising , a wan , waning moon . The broad fields lay dark beneath , and as the music ceased , I heard the sullen roar of the sea . If my heart ached with an indefinite longing , -- if it felt that the airy epicurism of the Pacha was but a sad cynicism , masquerading in smiles , -- if I dreaded to ask whether the wisest were not the saddest , -- if the rising moon , and the plunging sea , and the silence of midnight , were mournful , if I envied Daisy Clover her sweet sleep and vigorous waking , -- why , no one need ever know it , nor suspect that the brilliant Minerva Tattle is a failure . PARIS , _ October _ . MY DEAR MRS. DOWNE , -- Here we are at last ! I can hardly believe it .