Page 622 - women-in-love

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, out-
wardly—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. Par-
nell! 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 se-
riously? 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

622 Women in Love