And this she could do. She
would marry him, he would go into Parliament in the Conservative
interest, he would clear up the great muddle of labour and industry. He
was so superbly fearless, masterful, he knew that every problem could
be worked out, in life as in geometry. And he would care neither about
himself nor about anything but the pure working out of the problem. He
was very pure, really.
Her heart beat fast, she flew away on wings of elation, imagining a
future. He would be a Napoleon of peace, or a Bismarck--and she the
woman behind him. She had read Bismarck's letters, and had been deeply
moved by them. And Gerald would be freer, more dauntless than Bismarck.
But even as she lay in fictitious transport, bathed in the strange,
false sunshine of hope in life, something seemed to snap in her, and a
terrible cynicism began to gain upon her, blowing in like a wind.
Everything turned to irony with her: the last flavour of everything was
ironical. When she felt her pang of undeniable reality, this was when
she knew the hard irony of hopes and ideas.
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