He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often- he
would have admitted that- too sorely aware of something wrong,
something ugly; the fertilizing dew of a conceivable felicity too
seldom descended on his spirit. But at present he was happy- happier
than he had perhaps ever been in his life, and the feeling had a large
foundation. This was simply the sense of success- the most agreeable
emotion of the human heart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in
this respect he had the irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly
well and often reminded himself. "Ah no, I've not been spoiled;
certainly I've not been spoiled," he used inwardly to repeat. "If I do
succeed before I die I shall thoroughly have earned it." He was too
apt to reason as if "earning" this boon consisted above all of
covertly aching for it and might be confined to that exercise.
Absolutely void of it, also, his career had not been; he might
indeed have suggested to a spectator here and there that he was
resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were, some of them, now too
old; others had been too easy. The present one had been less arduous
than might have been expected, but had been easy- that is had been
rapid- only because he had made an altogether exceptional effort, a
greater effort than he had believed it in him to make.
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