“In Europe,” said Blanche, tapping her foot, and gazing apologetically at her handsome husband, “it is customary—as I thought everybody knew—for girls to bring their husbands a marriage portion. How much are you going to settle on me?” “How much what? Money? You’ve always had your $25,000 a year allowance, and I’ve never kicked when you overdrew it. But now you’re married, I suppose your husband——” “But, Mr. Conover,” broke in the prince, with more eagerness than Caleb had ever before seen on his placid exterior, “I think you fail to understand. I—we——” “What are you driving at?” snapped Conover. “Do you mean you can’t support your wife?” “Papa!” cried Blanche, in distress, “for once in your life try not to be coarse. It isn’t a question of support. It is the custom——” “For a father to pay a man to marry his girl? I can’t see it myself, though now you speak about it, I seem to have read or heard something of the sort. Well, if it’s a custom, I suppose it goes. How much?” The prince shivered, very gently, very daintily. “If it affects you that way,” growled Caleb, “I wouldn’t ’a’ brought up the subject if I was you. Say, Blanche, if you’re too timid to make a suggestion, how’ll this strike you? I’ll double your present allowance—$50,000 a year, eh?” “Impossible!” gasped d’Antri. “Not on your life!” retorted Caleb. “I could double that and never feel it. Don’t you worry about me not being able——” “But I cannot consent to——” “Who’s asked you to? It’s to be _her_ cash, ain’t it? Not yours. I don’t think you come on in this scene at all, Prince. It seems to be up to me and Blanche. And——” “Oh, you’ll _never_ understand!” cried Blanche in despair. “For the daughter of a man of your means, and the social position I am to occupy as Princess d’Antri, my _dot_ should be at least——” “Hold on!” interposed Caleb. “I think I begin to see. I——” “You _don’t_ see,” contradicted his daughter, pettishly; “I’ll have to explain. It——” “No, you won’t. If I couldn’t understand things without waiting to have ’em explained, I’d still be braking at $50 a month. As I take it, this prince party meets you in Yurrup, hears your father is _the_ Caleb Conover—an old fool of an American with a pretty daughter to place on the nobility market—and you make your bid. You marry him and he’s so sure of his ground he don’t even hold out for an ante-wedding bonus. He chases over here with you, and when he don’t find the dowry, or whatever else you call it, waiting for him at the dock, he makes bold to ring the cash register.” The prince was on his feet. “I cannot consent, sir, to listen to such——”