CROCKSTEAD. [_Still thoughtful, moving about the room._] Next to being king, it is good to be maker of kings. Where is this cousin now? ALINE. In America. But might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject? CROCKSTEAD. Do you remember your "Arabian Nights," Lady Aline? ALINE. Vaguely. CROCKSTEAD. You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph, Haroun Al-Raschid? ALINE. Oh, no--but why? CROCKSTEAD. We millionaires are the Caliphs to-day; and we command more faithful than ever bowed to them. And, like that old scoundrel Haroun, we may at times permit ourselves a respectable impulse. What is your cousin's address? ALINE. Again I ask--why? CROCKSTEAD. I will put him in a position to marry you. ALINE. [_In extreme surprise._] What! [_She rises._ CROCKSTEAD. Oh, don't be alarmed, I'll manage it pleasantly. I'll give him tips, shares, speculate for him, make him a director of one or two of my companies. He shall have an income of four thousand a year. You can live on that. ALINE. You are not serious? CROCKSTEAD. Oh yes; and though men may not like me, they always trust my word. You may. ALINE. And why will you do this thing? CROCKSTEAD. Call it caprice--call it a mere vulgar desire to let my magnificence dazzle you--call it the less vulgar desire to know that my money has made you happy with the man you love. ALINE. That is generous. CROCKSTEAD. I remember an old poem I learnt at school--which told how Frederick the Great coveted a mill that adjoined a favourite estate of his; but the miller refused to sell. Frederick could have turned him out, of course--there was not very much public opinion in those days--but he respected the miller's firmness, and left him in solid possession. And mark that, at that very same time, he annexed--in other words stole--the province of Silesia. ALINE. Ah-- CROCKSTEAD. [_Moving to the fireplace._] "Ce sont là jeux de Princes: Ils respectent un meunier, Ils volent une province." [_The music stops._ ALINE. You speak French? CROCKSTEAD. I am fond of it. It is the true and native language of insincerity. ALINE. And yet you seem sincere. CROCKSTEAD. I am permitting myself that luxury to-night. I am uncorking, let us say, the one bottle of '47 port left in my cellar. ALINE. You are not quite fair to yourself, perhaps. CROCKSTEAD. Do not let this action of mine cause you too suddenly to alter your opinion. The verdict you pronounced before was, on the whole, just. ALINE. What verdict? CROCKSTEAD. I was the most unpleasant person you ever had met. ALINE. That was an exaggeration. CROCKSTEAD. The most repulsive-- ALINE. [_Quickly._] I did not say that.