CROCKSTEAD. [Meditatively.] If I had been he, mother or no mother, money or no money, I would have carried you off. I fancy it must be pleasant to be loved by you, Lady Aline.
ALINE. [Dropping a mock curtsey, as she sits on the sofa.] You do me too much honour.
CROCKSTEAD. [Still thoughtful, moving about the room.] Next to being king, it is good to be maker of kings. Where is this cousin now?
ALINE. In America. But might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject?
CROCKSTEAD. Do you remember your "Arabian Nights," Lady Aline?
ALINE. Vaguely.
CROCKSTEAD. You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph, Haroun
Al-Raschid?
ALINE. Oh, no—but why?
CROCKSTEAD. We millionaires are the Caliphs to-day; and we command more faithful than ever bowed to them. And, like that old scoundrel Haroun, we may at times permit ourselves a respectable impulse. What is your cousin's address?
ALINE. Again I ask—why?