and
their terrible struggles to be superior each to the other, in the
social scale. There was Shortlands with its meaningless distinction,
the meaningless crowd of the Criches. There was London, the House of
Commons, the extant social world. My God!

Young as she was, Gudrun had touched the whole pulse of social England.
She had no ideas of rising in the world. She knew, with the perfect
cynicism of cruel youth, that to rise in the world meant to have one
outside show instead of another, the advance was like having a spurious
half-crown instead of a spurious penny. 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. And at the same
moment, a grimace came over her mouth, of mocking irony at her own
unspoken tirade. Ah, what a farce it was! She thought of Parnell and
Katherine O'Shea. Parnell! After all, who can take the nationalisation
of Ireland seriously? Who can take political Ireland really seriously,
whatever it does? And who can take political England seriously? Who
can? Who can care a straw, really, how the old patched-up Constitution
is tinkered at any more? Who cares a button for our national ideas, any
more than for our national bowler hat? Aha, it is all old hat, it is
all old bowler hat!

That's all it is, Gerald, my young hero. At any rate we'll spare
ourselves the nausea of stirring the old broth any more. You be
beautiful, my Gerald, and reckless. There ARE perfect moments. Wake up,
Gerald, wake up, convince me of the perfect moments. Oh, convince me,