"Then," he said, "forgive me for asking, but I must be quite sure—you don't care for any man at all?"
"Of course I don't," she answered, resentfully, "I shouldn't go about caring about any one who didn't care for me—and if any one cared for me and I cared for him, of course we should run away with each other at once."
"I see," said Mr. Basingstoke, slowly and distinctly. "Then if there isn't any one else I suggest that you run away with me."
It was fully half a minute before she spoke. Then she said: "I don't blame you. I deserve it for asking you to meet me and coming out like this. But I thought you were different."
"Deserve what?"
"To be insulted and humiliated. To be made a jest of."
"It seems to me that my offer is no more insulting or humiliating than any of your other offers. I like you very much. I think you like me. And I believe we should suit each other very well. Don't be angry. I'm perfectly serious. Don't speak for a minute. Listen. I've just come into some money, and I'm going about the country, seeing places and people. I'm just a tramp, as I told you. Come and be a tramp, too. We'll go anywhere you like. We'll take the map and you shall put your finger on any place you think you'd like to see, and we'll go straight off to it, by rail or motor, or in a cart, or a caravan, if you'd like it. Caravans must be charming. To go wherever you like, stop when you like—go on when you like. Come with me. I don't believe you'd ever regret it. And I know I never should."
"I believe you're serious," she said, half incredulously.
"Of course I am. It's a way out of all your troubles."