We do the most shockingly unconventional things together.

He tells me that I carry him off his feet--that I've revolutionised his ideas about the "nice English Girl" (useless to protest that I'm not an English girl but a hybrid Celt).

He says that I've wiped off his slate the scheme of life he'd been planning for his latter years.

A comfortable existence in England--his doctor advises him to settle down in a temperate climate--an appointment on some City Board--rubber shares and that kind of thing--you know it all--a red brick house in South Kensington and perhaps a little place in the country.

He did not fill in the picture--but I did for him--with the charmingly domesticated wife--well connected: the typical "nice English Girl," heiress of a comfortable fortune to supplement his own, which he candidly admitted needs supplementing.
Of course he's not a mere vulgar fortune-hunter.