ALINE. Ah--

CROCKSTEAD. [_Moving to the fireplace._]

"Ce sont là jeux de Princes:
Ils respectent un meunier,
Ils volent une province."

[_The music stops._

ALINE. You speak French?

CROCKSTEAD. I am fond of it. It is the true and native language of
insincerity.

ALINE. And yet you seem sincere.

CROCKSTEAD. I am permitting myself that luxury to-night. I am uncorking,
let us say, the one bottle of '47 port left in my cellar.

ALINE. You are not quite fair to yourself, perhaps.

CROCKSTEAD. Do not let this action of mine cause you too suddenly to alter
your opinion. The verdict you pronounced before was, on the whole, just.

ALINE. What verdict?

CROCKSTEAD. I was the most unpleasant person you ever had met.