"Nothing the better," says Marcia, calmly; "it would be always the same thing. I should share with you."
"What a stake it is to play for!" says the young man, wearily, with a distasteful gesture. "Is even twenty thousand pounds a year worth it?—the perpetual paying court, every day, and all day long? Sometimes I doubt it."
"It is well worth it," says Marcia, firmly. "How can you doubt it? All the good this world contains might be written under the name of 'money.' There is no happiness without it."
"There is love, however, and contentment."
"Don't believe it. Love may be purchased; and as for contentment, there is no such thing. It is a dream, a fable, a pretty story that babes may swallow."
"Yet they tell us money is the root of all evil."
"Not money, but the love of it," replies she, quickly. "Do not lose heart, Philip; he cannot last forever; and this week how ill he has been!"
"So he has, poor old wretch," her companion interrupts her hastily. "Well, I have just one clear week before me, and then,—I suppose I had better have recourse to my friends, the Jews. That will be a risky thing, if you like, under the circumstances. Should he find that out——"
"How can he? They are always so secret, so safe. Better do it than eat your heart out. And who is to betray you?"
"You." With a laugh.