"Thank you! And it sounds so easy! May I ask why you've refused to take your own medicine--you who say you are so often blue?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I've always suspected the men who asked me. They were--" She did not finish what she feared might be an unwise, repelling remark in the circumstances. "They were after your money," he finished for her. She nodded. "They were Europeans," she explained. "Europeans want money when they marry." "That's another of the curses of riches," he said judicially. "And if you marry a rich man over here, you may be pretty sure he'll marry you for your money. I've observed that rich men attach an exaggerated importance to money, always." "I'd prefer to marry a poor man," she hastened to answer, her heart beating faster--certainly his warning against rich suitors must have been designed to help his own cause with her. "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." "And has your Dulcinea red hands and a flat nose and freckles like the lady of Toboso?" Gladys' hands were white, her nose notably fine, her skin transparently clear. "Being Don Quixote, I don't know it if she has." "And you prefer to worship afar, and to send her news of your triumphs instead of going to her yourself?" "I dare not go." He was looking away, far away. "There are wicked enchanters. I'm powerless. She alone can break their spells."