now that he was
joking.

"Of course, you don't mean it!" she said quiveringly.

"Don't mean it? Good heavens!" The man laughed. "I do mean it, every
word! When we were having tea just now I did a lot of thinking. I am a
man who makes up his mind quickly and sticks to it. Now, look here, I'm
going to make you an offer--without sentiment or any nonsense of that
sort. I want a wife, and I want a girl who hasn't been spoilt by the
tomfoolery of the world. I want a girl I can mould to my own ideas. I'll
treat her well and be a good husband to a woman who could fancy me." He
paused. "Well, what do you say?"

Faith was staring at him with wide eyes and parted lips. His astounding
proposition had robbed her of speech. It was some seconds before she
could gasp out, "What do you mean? What do you mean?"

"I mean," said the Beggar Man earnestly, "that I'd like to marry you,
if you think you'd care about it."

It was many moments before Faith could find her voice; many moments
before she could conquer the conviction that all this was a dream. Then
she broke out, unconsciously using the words of Peg Fraser's favourite
ejaculation: "It's like a novelette."

She really thought it was; she was breathless with astonishment, dazed
with the unexpectedness of it all. The Beggar Man laughed.

"Is it? They always say that truth is stranger than fiction, don't
they?" He let down the window of the cab and thrust his head out,
calling to the driver:

"Go down the West End--the park--anywhere! I'll let you know when to
stop." He sat down again beside Faith. "Well, do you think you'd like to
be my wife?" he asked.

Faith shrank away from him, her face flushing.

"I don't know anything about you. You don't know anything about me," she
stammered. He smiled.

"That can soon be remedied. My name is Nicholas Forrester, my _real_
name, that is! I've been known by lots of others in my lifetime, but
that's neither here nor there. I've got more money than I know what to
do with. I'm like the poor devil in 'Brewster's Millions'--everything I
touch turns to gold. Have you read 'Brewster's Millions'?"

"No."

"I'll tell you the story some day. There isn't time now. But if you
marry me you can buy any mortal thing you like, except the moon or
Buckingham Palace. Doesn't that attract you?" he asked dryly.

The colour surged back into Faith's pale face. She leaned a little
towards him.

"_Anything!_" she asked.

The man looked faintly disa