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“Make it good,” said the Kilraine fortune. “That’s a twelve-million-dollar kiss.” Ben and Rose froze.

“Four lips into twelve million dollars gives three million dollars a lip,” said the Kilraine fortune.

“Rose, listen—I—” said Ben. No thoughts came.

“He’s trying to say he’d love you,” said the twelve million, “even if you didn’t have a thousand dollars a day, without even touching the principal. He’d love you even if the principal wasn’t going right through the roof in the bull market; even if he had two dimes of his own to rub together; even if he wasn’t dead sick of working. He’d love you even if he didn’t want money so bad he could taste it; even if he hadn’t dreamed all his life of going bluefishing in his own Crosby Striper, with a Jacobson rod, a Strozier reel, a Matthews line, and a case of cold Schlitz.”

The Kilraine fortune seemed to pause for breath.

Ben and Rose let each other go. Their hands fell away from each other lifelessly.

“He’d love you,” said the twelve million dollars, “even if he hadn’t said a hundred times that the only way to make big money, by God, was to marry it.” The Kilraine fortune closed in for the final kill. There was no need of it. The perfect moment of love was already dead, stiff and bug-eyed.

“I guess I’d better say good night,” said Rose to Ben. “Thanks a lot for starting the oil burner and everything.”

“Glad to be of help,” said Ben desolately.

The twelve million dollars administered the coup de grâce. “He loves you, Rose,” it said, “even though you aren’t what anybody’d call a raving beauty or a personality girl—even though nobody but a sick old man ever fell in love with you before.”

“Good night,” said Ben. “Sleep tight.”

“Good night,” said Rose. “Sweet dreams.”

All night long, Ben, in his rumpled, narrow bed, took inventory of Rose’s virtues—virtues any one of which was more tempting than twelve million dollars. In his agitation, he peeled wallpaper from the wall by his bed.

When dawn came, he knew that a kiss was all that could drown out the twelve million dollars. If he and Rose could kiss, ignoring all the nasty things the Kilraine fortune could say about it, they could prove to each other that they had love above all. And they’d live happily ever after.

Ben decided to take Rose by storm, to overwhelm her with his manliness. They were, after all, when all was said and done, a man and a woman.

At nine that morning, Ben lifted the massive knocker on the front door of the Kilraine cottage. He let it fall. The boom echoed and died in nineteen rooms.

Ben was in clamming clothes, as big as Paul Bunyan, in hip boots, two layers of trousers, four layers of sweaters, and a villainous black cap. He carried his clam rake like a battle-ax. Beside him was a bucket stuffed with a burlap bag.

The heiress to the Kilraine fortune, wearing an old bathrobe patterned with daisies a foot across, answered the door. “Yes?” said Rose. She took a step backward. “Oh—it’s you,” she said. “I’m not used to you in boots.”

Ben, supported by his clothing, maintained an air of ponderous indifference. “I’d like to go clamming off your beach, if that’s all right with you,” he said.

Rose was shyly interested. “You mean there are clams right out there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ben. “Cherrystones.”

“Well, I never,” said Rose. “Like in a restaurant?”

“That’s who’ll buy ’em,” said Ben.

“Now, isn’t God good to Cape Codders,” said Rose, “putting all that food out there for anybody who needs it?”

“Yes,” said Ben. He touched his cap. “Well, thanks for everything.” He timed his turn carefully, so she would be sure he was walking out of her life. And then he turned back to her suddenly, passionately, and grabbed her.

“Rose, Rose, Rose,” said Ben.

“Ben, Ben, Ben,” said Rose.

The Kilraine fortune seemed to yell at them from somewhere deep in the cottage. Before they could kiss, it was with them again. “This I’ve got to see—this twelve-million-dollar kiss,” it said.

Rose ducked her head. “No, no, no, Ben, no,” she said.

“Forget everything else,” said Ben. “We’re what matters.”

“Forget twelve million