"Yes, I know--yes, that’s quite right. You see he was married before to a wealthy woman. They lived here in London. I’m afraid they didn’t get on well together. It was his fault. He says so, and I believe it was. I can quite understand the way it all happened. You must love money very much to be able to get on with it when it’s not your own. He didn’t love it enough. Her money got between them. One never really knows the ins and outs of these things. Nobody can possibly explain them. I say I understand it, but I don’t. They happen when people marry. Only, it would appear, when they marry. She never threw it in his face, I’m sure of that. He always speaks of her as a wonderful woman; but it was just there--that’s all. Gold’s a strange metal, you know--an uncanny metal, I think. They talk of the ill-luck of the opal, it’s nothing to the ill-luck of the gold the opal is set in. You must realise the absolute valuelessness of it, that it’s no more worth than tin, or iron, or lead, or any other metal that the stray thrust of a spade may dig up; if you don’t think of it like that, if you haven’t an utter contempt for it, it’s a poison, is gold. It’s subtle, deadly poison that finds its heavy way into the most sacred heart of human beings and rots the dearest and the gentlest thoughts they have. They say familiarity breeds contempt. In every case but that of gold, it’s true. But in gold it’s just the reverse. The only way with gold, to have contempt for it, is to have none and, when it does enter your possession, give it away. You keep it, you struggle for it, you give it a moment’s place on your altar, and you’ll find that your first-born must be the burnt offering you will have to make to assuage its insatiable lust." The sense of humour saved him from saying more. Suddenly he turned and looked at her, and laughed. The only way with gold, to have contempt for it, is to have none and, when it does enter your possession, give it away. Glorious words to say when you have only a penny in your pocket to pay for your chair in Kensington Gardens--such a fine sense of bravado in them. As for the chance of money falling from the heavens or the elm trees into your lap, it is so remote, that you can afford to voice your preachings without fear of having to put them into immediate practice. Seeing all this and, seeing the solemn expression on her face, John laughed. All that fine parade of words of his was very human. He knew it. There is not one amongst us but who does it every day. There never is so fine an army of brave men as you will find in times of peace; never so lavish a man with money as he who has none. These are the real humours, the real comedies in this struggle for existence. And yet, it is the only philosophy for the poor man who has nothing, to say he wants less. So you cheat the little gods of their laughter, and whistle a tune to show how little you care.