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.