CROCKSTEAD. You. I beg it on my knees. I give you carte blanche. I
undertake to propose, with my eyes shut, to the woman you shall select.
ALINE. And will you treat her to the--little preliminaries--with which you
have favoured me?
CROCKSTEAD. No. I said those things to you because I liked you.
ALINE. And you don't intend to like the other one?
CROCKSTEAD. I will marry her, I can trust you to find me a loyal and
intelligent woman.
ALINE. In Society?
CROCKSTEAD. For preference. She will be better versed in spending money
than a governess, or country parson's daughter.
ALINE. But why this voracity for marriage?
CROCKSTEAD. Lady Aline, I am hunted, pestered, worried, persecuted. I have
settled two breach of promise actions already, though Heaven knows I did
no more than remark it was a fine day, or enquire after the lady's health.
If you do not help me, some energetic woman will capture me--I feel
it--and bully me for the rest of my days. I raise a despairing cry to
you--Find me a wife!
ALINE. Do you desire the lady to have any--special qualifications?
CROCKSTEAD. No--the home-grown article will do. One thing, though--I
should like her to be--merciful.
ALINE. I don't understand.
CROCKSTEAD. I have a vague desire to do something with my money: my wife
might help me. I should like her to have pity.
ALINE. Pity?
CROCKSTEAD. In the midst of her wealth I should wish her to be sorry for
those who are poor.