"A bet that I would have a 'price,' Mademoiselle? Then you may win your
bet, for I've just told you; I have a price. But I think it unlikely
you would be willing to pay it."

"Good heavens, is he going to try and marry the girl?" I asked myself.
It would be the last thing to expect of Anthony Fenton. However, he had
already done the last but one; the thing I had bet his green turban he
would not do. After all, he was a man, and a reckless man, as he had
proved on more than one wild occasion. He was in a strange mood,
capable of anything; and the Gilded Rose could never have been prettier
in her life than at this minute. She had made him furious, and I had
imagined that his acceptance of her overtures was the beginning of some
scheme of punishment. Now I was almost sure I had been right, yet I
could not guess what he would be at. Neither could Monny. But here was
the dangerously picturesque Arab who "must be a prince or something,"
as Cleopatra had expressed it. And he was even more dangerous than
picturesque.

"You--you said you wouldn't take wages," she stammered (I enjoyed
hearing the self-willed young person stammer): "so I can't understand
what you mean. But even though you are all those things Lord Ernest
says you are, your price can't be so terribly high as to be beyond my
power to pay--if I choose to pay."

"First, Mademoiselle, I must decide whether I choose to be paid."

"Oh!" Monny exclaimed, taken aback. "I thought it was a question of
price."