“You’ve not been touched by that mediæval dream?” she said. “This is the twentieth century, Jeffrey.”
“Yes,” said Ember slowly. “Yes, the twentieth century, and I said ... ‘a new Philosopher’s Stone.’ The mediæval alchemists dreamed of something that would turn all it touched to gold, that would transmute the baser metals. I have found something which will touch this base civilisation, this rotten fabric with which we have surrounded ourselves, and dissolve it. And when it is in solution there will be gold and to spare.”
“What do you mean?” said Lady Heritage.
Ember met her frown with a smile.
“Was it a week ago that I heard you say, ‘If I could smash it all’? And didn’t you sing:
“‘Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?’
You sang that as if you meant it, Raymond. You sang it with all your heart in your beautiful voice. Well, Fate has conspired for you and given this sorry scheme of things into your hands to shatter—to shatter and re-mould.”