“I can’t believe that of you. I won’t believe it until you compel me
to.”
“As I understand it,” said I, “you propose that I hand over to this
young man four million----”
“Only about half of it, Godfrey,” cried she, reviving. “The other half
would be Margot’s--for her own income.”
“Then that I hand over to this amiable, insignificant young foreigner
two million dollars to induce him to consent to the degradation of
marrying my daughter--to have him going about, saying in effect, ‘It is
true, she is only one of those low Americans, but don’t forget that I
got two million dollars for stooping.’ Is that the proposition?”
“You know it isn’t!” cried she. “He doesn’t feel that he is degrading
himself. He feels proud of winning her--the most beautiful, the best
mannered girl in London. But it’d be simply impossible for them to
marry without the money. _I_ shouldn’t want it. They would be wretched.
You talk like a sentimental schoolboy, Godfrey. How could two refined,
sensitive people such as Hugh and Margot, used to every luxury, used
to being foremost in society--how could they be happy without the
means----”
“The money,” I corrected blandly.
“Without the money needed to maintain their position as marquis and
marchioness of Crossley?”