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._