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?

ALINE. [_Embarrassed._] I--I--

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--