fellows. How many millions has Vanderpoel?"

"How many millions. How many hundred millions!" said his companion,
gloating cheerfully over the vastness of unknown possibilities. "I've
crossed with Miss Vanderpoel often, two or three times when she was in
short frocks. She's the kind of girl you read about. And she's got money
enough to buy in half a dozen princes."

"There are New Yorkers who won't like it if she does," returned the
other. "There's been too much money going out of the country. Her
suite is crammed full of Jack roses, now, and there are boxes waiting
outside."

Salter moved away and heard no more. He moved away, in fact, because he
was conscious that to a man in his case, this dwelling upon millions,
this plethora of wealth, was a little revolting. He had walked down
Broadway and seen the price of Jacqueminot roses, and he was not soothed
or allured at this particular moment by the picture of a girl whose
half-dozen cabins were crowded with them.

"Oh, the devil!" he said. "It sounds vulgar." And he walked up and
down fast, squaring his shoulders, with his hands in the pockets of his
rough, well-worn coat. He had seen in England something of the American
young woman with millionaire relatives. He had been scarcely more than a
boy when the American flood first began to rise. He had been old enough,
however, to hear people talk. As he had grown older, Salter had observed
its advance. Englishmen had married American beauties. American fortunes
had built up English houses, which otherwise threatened to fall into
decay. Then the American faculty of adaptability came into play.
Anglo-American wives became sometimes more English than their husbands.