"Like him? She's gotta like him. Say, can't you make your mind soar, or
won't you? Can't you see that a thing like this has gotta be fixed
different from a marriage between--between a ribbon-counter clerk and
the girl who takes the money at a twenty-five-cent hash restaurant in
Flatbush? This is a royal alliance. Do you suppose that when a European
princess is introduced to the prince she's going to marry, they let her
say: 'Nothing doing. I don't like the shape of his nose'?"

He gave a spirited imitation of a European princess objecting to the
shape of her selected husband's nose.

"It isn't very romantic, Bennie," sighed Miss Scobell. She was a
confirmed reader of the more sentimental class of fiction, and this
business-like treatment of love's young dream jarred upon her.

"It's founding a dynasty. Isn't that romantic enough for you? You make
me tired, Marion."

Miss Scobell sighed again.

"Very well, dear. I suppose you know best. But perhaps the Prince won't
like Betty."

Mr. Scobell gave a snort of disgust.

"Marion," he said, "you've got a mind like a chunk of wet dough. Can't
you understand that the Prince is just as much in my employment as the
man who scrubs the Casino steps? I'm hiring him to be Prince of Mervo,
and his first job as Prince of Mervo will be to marry Betty. I'd like
to see him kick!" He began to pace the room. "By Heck, it's going to