CROCKSTEAD. [Serenely.] I fancy that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?

ALINE. [Stamping her foot.] I have, of course, been debarred from the disreputable amours on which you linger so fondly; but I loved a soldier cousin of mine, and would have run away with him had my mother not packed me off in time.  He went to India, and I stayed here; but he is the only man I have loved or ever shall love.  Further, let me tell you I am twenty-eight; I have always been poor—­I hate poverty, and it has soured me no less than you.  Dress is the thing in life I care for most, vulgarity my chief abomination.  And to be frank, I consider you the most vulgar person I have ever met.  Will you still marry me, Mr. Crockstead?

CROCKSTEAD. [With undiminished cheerfulness.] Why not?

ALINE.  This is an outrage.  Am I a horse, do you think, or a ballet-dancer?  Do you imagine I will sell myself to you for your three millions?

CROCKSTEAD.  Logic, my dear Lady Aline, is evidently not one of your more special possessions.  For, had it not been for my—­somewhat eccentric preliminaries—­you would have accepted me, would you not?

ALINE. [Embarrassed.] I—­I—­

CROCKSTEAD.  If I had said to you, timidly:  “Lady Aline, I love you:  I am a simple, unsophisticated person; will you marry me?” You would have answered, “Yes, Harrison, I will.”

ALINE.  It is a mercy to have escaped marrying a man with such a Christian name as Harrison.

CROCKSTEAD.  It has been in the family for generations, you know; but it is a strange thing that I am always called Harrison, and that no one ever adopts the diminutive.

ALINE.  That does not surprise me:  we have no pet name for the East wind.

CROCKSTEAD.  The possession of millions, you see, Lady Aline, puts you into eternal quarantine.  It is a kind of yellow fever, with the difference that people are perpetually anxious to catch your complaint.  But we digress.  To return to the question of our marriage—­

ALINE.  I beg your pardon.

CROCKSTEAD.  I presume that it is—­arranged?

ALINE. [Haughtily.] Mr. Crockstead, let me remind you that frankness has its limits:  exceeding these, it is apt to degenerate into impertinence.  Be good enough to conduct me to the ball-room.

     [She moves to the door.

CROCKSTEAD.  You have five sisters, I believe, Lady Aline? [ALINE stops short.] All younger than yourself, all marriageable, and all unmarried?

     [ALINE hangs her head and is silent.

CROCKSTEAD.  Your father—­

ALINE. [Fiercely.] Not a word of my father!

CROCKSTEAD.  Your father is a gentleman.  The breed is rare, and very fine when you get it.  But he is exceedingly poor.  People marry for money nowadays; and your mother will be very unhappy if this marriage of ours falls through.