"Yes, that might be better," he agreed. "But you would have to be careful after you were married or he might fancy you were using your money to tyrannize over him. I've noticed that the poor husbands of rich women are supersensitive—often for cause."
"Oh, I'd give it all to him. He could do what he pleased with it. I'd not care so long as we were happy."
Scarborough liked the spirit of this, liked her look as she said it.
"That's very generous—very like you," he replied warmly. "But I don't think it would be at all wise. You'd be in a dangerous position. You might spoil him—great wealth is a great danger, and when it's suddenly acquired, and so easily— No, you'd better put your wealth aside and only use so much of it as will make your income equal to his—if you can stand living economically."
"I could stand anything with or from any one I cared for." Gladys was eager for the conversation to turn from the general to the particular. She went on, forcing her voice to hide her interest: "And you, why don't you cure your blues?"
"Oh, I shall," he replied carelessly. "But not with your medicine. Every one to his own prescription."
"And what's yours for yourself?" said Gladys, feeling tired and nervous from the strain of this delayed happiness.
"Mine?" He laughed. "My dreams."
"You are a strange combination, aren't you? In one way you're so very practical—with your politics and all that. And in another way—I suspect you of being sentimental—almost romantic."
"You've plucked out the heart of my mystery. My real name is non Quixote de Saint X."