CHAPTER 19
To the great horde of starving European nobility the daughters of American millionaires have dropped as heavenly manna. It was but dire necessity that forced low the bars of social caste to the transoceanic traffic between fortune and title.
That Mrs. Hawley-Crowles might ever aspire to the purchase of a decrepit dukedom had never entered her thought. A tottering earldom was likewise beyond her purchasing power. She had contented herself that Carmen should some day barter her rare culture, her charm, and her unrivaled beauty, for the more lowly title of an impecunious count or baron. But to what heights of ecstasy did her little soul rise when the young Duke of Altern made it known to her that he would honor her beautiful ward with his own glorious name––in exchange for La Libertad and other good and valuable considerations, receipt of which would be duly acknowledged.
“I––aw––have spoken to her, ye know, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,” that worthy young cad announced one afternoon, as he sat alone with the successful society leader in the warm glow of her living room. “And––bah Jove! she said we were engaged, ye know––really! Said we were awfully good friends, ye know, and all that. ’Pon my word! she said she loved me.” For Reginald had done much thinking of late––and his creditors were restless.
“Why, you don’t mean it!” cried the overpowered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, beaming like a full-blown sunflower.
“But I do, really! Only––ye know, she’ll have to be––coached a bit, ye know––told who we are––our ancestral history, and all that. You know what I mean, eh?”
“Of course––you dear boy! Why, she just couldn’t help loving you!”