He admitted to himself that “causes” had ceased to interest him except as they might contribute to the advancement of his power. Power!—that was his ambition now. First he had wished to have an independent income in order to be free. When he had achieved that, it was at the sacrifice of his mental freedom. And now, with the clearness of self-knowledge which only men of great ability have, he knew that the one cause for which he would make sacrifices was—himself.
“Of what are you thinking so gloomily?” she interrupted.
“Oh—I—let me see—well, I was thinking what a fraud I am; and that I wished I could dupe myself as completely as I can dupe—”
“Me?” she laughed. “Oh, we’re all frauds—shocking frauds. I wouldn’t have you see me as I really am for anything.”
Although her remark was a commonplace, of small meaning, as he knew, he got comfort out of it, so desperately was he casting about for some consolation.
“That’s true, my dear,” he said. “And I wish that you liked the kind of a fraud I am as well as I like the kind of a fraud you are.”
XXIV. — “MR. VALIANT-FOR-TRUTH.”
Stokely came rushing into his office the next morning. “Good God, old man,” he exclaimed, “What’s the meaning of this attack on the coal roads?”