“You can’t go on spending money for nothing like this,” Sylvia protested.
“I got plenty, ha’n’t I?” he asked.
She nodded.
“And I believe it’s my money, ain’t it?” he continued.
She nodded again.
“Well, dat finishes dat argument right away. Now I got another proposition. You listening? I got a proposition dat we get married. I believe I ’ain’t met no girl like you. I know you’ve been a cabaret girl. Dat don’t matter a cent to me. You’re British. Well, I’ve always had a kind of notion I’d like to marry a British girl. Don’t you tink I’m always the daffy guy you’ve bummed around with in Buenos Aires. You saw me in dat dancing-saloon? Well, I guess you know what I can do. Dat’s what I am in business. Say, Sylvia, will you marry me?”
She shook her head.
“My dear old son, it wouldn’t work for you or for me.”
“I don’t see how you figure dat out.”
“I’ve figured it out to seventy times seven. It wouldn’t do. Not for another mad month even. Come, let’s say good-by. I want to go to Europe. I’m going to have a good time. It’ll be you that’s going to give it to me. My dear old Carlos, you may have spent your money badly from your point of view, but you haven’t really. You never spent any money better in all your life.”