The prince shivered, very gently, very daintily.
“If it affects you that way,” growled Caleb, “I wouldn’t ’a’ brought up the subject if I was you. Say, Blanche, if you’re too timid to make a suggestion, how’ll this strike you? I’ll double your present allowance—$50,000 a year, eh?”
“Impossible!” gasped d’Antri.
“Not on your life!” retorted Caleb. “I could double that and never feel it. Don’t you worry about me not being able——”
“But I cannot consent to——”
“Who’s asked you to? It’s to be her cash, ain’t it? Not yours. I don’t think you come on in this scene at all, Prince. It seems to be up to me and Blanche. And——”
“Oh, you’ll never understand!” cried Blanche in despair. “For the daughter of a man of your means, and the social position I am to occupy as Princess d’Antri, my dot should be at least——”
“Hold on!” interposed Caleb. “I think I begin to see. I——”
“You don’t see,” contradicted his daughter, pettishly; “I’ll have to explain. It——”
“No, you won’t. If I couldn’t understand things without waiting to have ’em explained, I’d still be braking at $50 a month. As I take it, this prince party meets you in Yurrup, hears your father is the Caleb Conover—an old fool of an American with a pretty daughter to place on the nobility market—and you make your bid. You marry him and he’s so sure of his ground he don’t even hold out for an ante-wedding bonus. He chases over here with you, and when he don’t find the dowry, or whatever else you call it, waiting for him at the dock, he makes bold to ring the cash register.”