But Jim—­of all people, Jim! He was as far removed from the boundaries of her dream as the North Pole is removed from the South.  His patent leather hair—­she could not picture it against her arm—­his mouth, thin-lipped and too red....  She shuddered involuntarily, as she thought of it and the man, bending above her, saw the shudder.

“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.

“What’s it matter how I get it,” he snarled, “long’s I get it!  What business is it of yers how I come by my coin?  I ain’t stagin’ a investergation.  And”—­his face softened suddenly, “an’ yer wouldn’t understand, anyhow!  Yer only a girl—­a little kid!  What’s it matter how I gets th’ roll—­long as I’m willin’ ter spend it on m’ sweetie?  What’s it matter?” He made a movement as if to take her into his arms—­“What’s it matter?” he questioned again.

Like a flash Rose-Marie was upon her feet.  With a swing of her body she had evaded his arms.  Her face was white and drawn, but her mind was exceptionally active—­more active than it had ever been in all of her life.  She knew that Jim was in a difficult mood—­that a word, one way or the other, would make him as easy to manage as a kitten or as relentless as a panther, stalking his prey.  She knew that it was in her power to say the word that would calm him until the return of his mother and his sister.  And yet she found it well-nigh impossible to say that word.

“I’m tired of deceit,” she told herself, as she stepped back in the direction of the door.  “I’ll not say anything to him that isn’t true! ...  Nothing can happen to me, anyway,” she assured herself.  “This is the twentieth century, and I’m Rose-Marie Thompson.  This is a civilized country—­nothing can hurt me!  I’m not afraid—­not while God is taking care of me!”