The whole coinage of valuation
was spurious. Yet of course, her cynicism knew well enough that, in a
world where spurious coin was current, a bad sovereign was better than
a bad farthing. But rich and poor, she despised both alike.
Already she mocked at herself for her dreams. They could be fulfilled
easily enough. But she recognised too well, in her spirit, the mockery
of her own impulses. What did she care, that Gerald had created a
richly-paying industry out of an old worn-out concern? What did she
care? The worn-out concern and the rapid, splendidly organised
industry, they were bad money. Yet of course, she cared a great deal,
outwardly--and outwardly was all that mattered, for inwardly was a bad
joke.
Everything was intrinsically a piece of irony to her. She leaned over
Gerald and said in her heart, with compassion:
'Oh, my dear, my dear, the game isn't worth even you. You are a fine
thing really--why should you be used on such a poor show!'
Her heart was breaking with pity and grief for him.
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