ALINE. [Moving a step towards him.] Is it to oblige my mother, then, that you desire to marry me?

CROCKSTEAD.  Well, no.  But you see I must marry some one, in mere self-defence; and honestly, I think you will do at least as well as any one else. [ALINE bursts out laughing.] That strikes you as funny?

ALINE.  If you had the least grain of chivalrous feeling, you would realise that the man who could speak to a woman as you have spoken to me—­

     [She pauses.

CROCKSTEAD.  Yes?

ALINE.  I leave you to finish the sentence.

CROCKSTEAD.  Thank you.  I will finish it my own way.  I will say that when a woman deliberately tries to wring an offer of marriage from a man whom she does not love, she deserves to be spoken to as I have spoken to you, Lady Aline.

ALINE. [Scornfully.] Love!  What has love to do with marriage?

CROCKSTEAD.  That remark rings hollow.  You have been good enough to tell me of your cousin, whom you did love—­

ALINE.  Well?

CROCKSTEAD.  And with whom you would have eloped, had your mother not prevented you.

ALINE.  I most certainly should.

CROCKSTEAD.  So you see that at one period of your life you thought differently.—­You were very fond of him?

ALINE.  I have told you.

CROCKSTEAD. [Meditatively.] If I had been he, mother or no mother, money or no money, I would have carried you off.  I fancy it must be pleasant to be loved by you, Lady Aline.

ALINE. [Dropping a mock curtsey, as she sits on the sofa.] You do me too much honour.

CROCKSTEAD. [Still thoughtful, moving about the room.] Next to being king, it is good to be maker of kings.  Where is this cousin now?

ALINE.  In America.  But might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject?

CROCKSTEAD.  Do you remember your “Arabian Nights,” Lady Aline?

ALINE.  Vaguely.

CROCKSTEAD.  You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph, Haroun
Al-Raschid?

ALINE.  Oh, no—­but why?

CROCKSTEAD.  We millionaires are the Caliphs to-day; and we command more faithful than ever bowed to them.  And, like that old scoundrel Haroun, we may at times permit ourselves a respectable impulse.  What is your cousin’s address?

ALINE.  Again I ask—­why?

CROCKSTEAD.  I will put him in a position to marry you.

ALINE. [In extreme surprise.] What! [She rises.

CROCKSTEAD.  Oh, don’t be alarmed, I’ll manage it pleasantly.  I’ll give him tips, shares, speculate for him, make him a director of one or two of my companies.  He shall have an income of four thousand a year.  You can live on that.

ALINE.  You are not serious?

CROCKSTEAD.  Oh yes; and though men may not like me, they always trust my word.  You may.

ALINE.  And why will you do this thing?