ALINE. [_Snapping her fan._] You are remarkably well-informed.
CROCKSTEAD. I have been told that again to-night, three times, by charming
young women who vowed that they loved you. Now, as I have no dearest
friends, it is unlikely that you will have heard anything equally definite
concerning myself. I propose to enlighten you.
ALINE. [_Satirically._] The story of your life--how thrilling!
CROCKSTEAD. I trust you may find it so. [_He sits, and pauses for a
moment, then begins, very quietly._] Lady Aline, I am a self-made man, as
the foolish phrase has it--a man whose early years were spent in savage
and desolate places, where the devil had much to say; a man in whom
whatever there once had been of natural kindness was very soon kicked out.
I was poor, and lonely, for thirty-two years: I have been rich, and
lonely, for ten. My millions have been made honestly enough; but poverty
and wretchedness had left their mark on me, and you will find very few
men with a good word to say for Harrison Crockstead. I have no polish, or
culture, or tastes. Art wearies me, literature sends me to sleep--
ALINE. When you come to the chapter of your personal deficiencies, Mr.
Crockstead, please remember that they are sufficiently evident for me to
have already observed them.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Without a trace of annoyance._] That is true. I will pass,
then, to more intimate matters. In a little township in Australia--a
horrible place where there was gold--I met a woman whom I loved. She was
what is technically known as a bad woman. She ran away with another man. I
tracked them to Texas, and in a mining camp there I shot the man. I wanted
to take the woman back, but she refused. That has been my solitary love
affair; and I shall never love any woman again as I loved her. I think
that is all that I have to tell you. And now--will you marry me, Lady
Aline?
ALINE. [_Very steadily, facing him._] Not if you were the last man in this
world, Mr. Crockstead.
CROCKSTEAD. [_With a pleasant smile._] At least that is emphatic.
ALINE. See, I will give you confidence for confidence. This is, as you
suggest, my ninth season. Living in an absurd milieu where marriage with a
wealthy man is regarded as the one aim in life, I have, during the past
few weeks, done all that lay in my power to wring a proposal from you.
CROCKSTEAD. I appreciate your sincerity.
ALINE. Perhaps the knowledge that other women were doing the same lent a
little zest to the pursuit, which otherwise would have been very dreary;
for I confess that your personality did not--especially appeal to me.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Cheerfully._] Thank you very much.
ALINE. Not at all. Indeed, this room being the Palace of Truth, I will
admit that it was only by thinking hard of your three millions that I have
been able to conceal the weariness I have felt in your society. And now
will you marry me, Mr. Crockstead?
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?