There is a story about Winston Churchill, most probably apocryphal, which has him inebriated at a dinner party. He asks the socialite sitting beside him whether she would sleep with him for a million pounds.
“Perhaps,” the woman replies coyly.
“Well, would you sleep with me for one pound?” Churchill then asks.
“Of course not, what kind of woman do you take me for?” the woman indignantly retorts.
“Madam, we’ve already established what kind of woman you are,” answers Churchill, “now we’re just negotiating the price.”