“It’s all right for you to have money, of course. I won’t marry a pauper, even if she’s a duchess. But you and I, Miss Carmen, are just suited to each other––wealth and nobility on each side. I’ve got thirty thousand good British acres in my own right, bah Jove!”
By now Carmen had fully recovered from her surprise. She reflected a moment, then determined to meet the absurd youth with the spirit of levity which his audacity merited. “But, Reginald,” she said in mock seriousness, “though your father was a duke, how about your mother? Was she not just an ordinary American girl, a sister of plain Mrs. J. Wilton Ames? Where’s the aristocracy there? Now on my side––”
“Now, Miss Carmen,” cried the boy petulantly, “can’t you see that, by marrying my father, my mother became ennobled? Bah Jove, you don’t understand! Were your parents both noble?”
“Indeed they were!” said Carmen. “They were both children of a king.”
“You don’t say!” he whispered, leaning far over the table toward her. “Then we’ve simply got to marry!”
“But,” protested the girl, “in my country people love those whom they marry. I haven’t heard a word of that from you.”
“Now, I say!” he exclaimed. “I was just getting round to that. It was love that made me offer you my name and title!”
“Yes? Love of what?”
“Why––you––of course!”
She laughed musically. “My dear Reginald, you don’t love me. It is yourself that you love. You are madly in love, it is true; but it is with the young Duke of Altern.”