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 la 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.
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