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?