ALINE. I have told you.

CROCKSTEAD. [_Meditatively._] If I had been he, mother or no mother, money
or no money, I would have carried you off. I fancy it must be pleasant to
be loved by you, Lady Aline.

ALINE. [_Dropping a mock curtsey, as she sits on the sofa._] You do me too
much honour.

CROCKSTEAD. [_Still thoughtful, moving about the room._] Next to being
king, it is good to be maker of kings. Where is this cousin now?

ALINE. In America. But might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject?

CROCKSTEAD. Do you remember your "Arabian Nights," Lady Aline?

ALINE. Vaguely.

CROCKSTEAD. You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph, Haroun
Al-Raschid?

ALINE. Oh, no--but why?

CROCKSTEAD. We millionaires are the Caliphs to-day; and we command more
faithful than ever bowed to them. And, like that old scoundrel Haroun, we
may at times permit ourselves a respectable impulse. What is your cousin's
address?

ALINE. Again I ask--why?