"Well," he questioned for the third time, "what about it? I'm a reg'lar guy, ain't I? How'd you like to marry me?"
Rose-Marie moistened her lips before she answered. Her voice, when it came, was very husky.
"Why, Jim," she said faintly, "what an idea! How did you ever come to think of it?"
The man's face was flushed. His words tumbled, quickly, from his unsteady mouth.
"I'm crazy about yer, kid," he said, "crazy about yer! Don't think that bein' married t' me will mean as you'll have ter live in a dump like this-there"—the sweep of his arm was expressive—"fer yer won't! You'll have th' grandest flat in this city—anywhere yer say'll suit me! Yer'll have hats an' dresses, an' a car—if yer want it. Yer'll have everything—if yer'll marry me! What d' yer say?"
Rose-Marie's face was a study of mixed emotions—consternation struggling with incredulity for first place. The man saw the unbelief; for he hurried on before she could speak.
"Yer think that I'm like my pa was"—he told her—"livin' on measly wages! Well, I ain't. Some nights I make a pile that runs inter thousands—an' it'll be all fer yer! All fer yer!"
Of a sudden, Rose-Marie spoke. She was scarcely tactful.
"How do you make all of this money, Jim?" she questioned; "do you come by it honestly?"
A dark wave of colour spread over the man's face—dyeing it to an ugly crimson.