She did not believe in the inner life--it was a trick, not a
reality. She did not believe in the spiritual world--it was an
affectation. In the last resort, she believed in Mammon, the flesh, and
the devil--these at least were not sham. She was a priestess without
belief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemned
to the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. Yet there
was no escape. She was a leaf upon a dying tree. What help was there
then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for the
old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess of
desecrated mysteries? The old great truths BAD been true. And she was a
leaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. To the
old and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism and
mockery took place at the bottom of her soul.
'I am so glad to see you,' she said to Ursula, in her slow voice, that
was like an incantation. 'You and Rupert have become quite friends?'
'Oh yes,' said Ursula.
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