The rest of the ticket was retained by the buyer. It bought what the masses were beginning to speak of as the dandy belly-filler for a hungry person who was warranted not to have any money. No. 3 coupon was to be detached by the doorkeeper at Madison Square Garden and returned to the ticket-buyer. If the holder of said coupon exercised his or her brains he or she would receive ten thousand dollars in cash. Conditions governing the collection of said ten thousand dollars would be published on Saturday morning. It would _not_ be a lottery. It now behooved charitable New-Yorkers to buy the tickets which would feed all hungry persons who positively had no money to buy food with, and at the same time receive ten thousand dollars in cash, brains being present--all for twenty-five cents. The ten thousand would be paid in cash, with United States Treasury notes obtained from the National Bank of the Avenue. This insured their genuineness. On Monday the perfectly beautiful started. It was, fittingly, a perfectly beautiful day. In automobiles (makers' names given, since it was for charity) decked with beautiful flowers (donating florists also honorably mentioned in the public prints, and paid advs. besides) the perfectly beautiful hundred went forth to appeal to the great heart of New York. They were indeed beautiful. At least the men, being blind and possessing the suffrage, thought so. Why, they even clamored to be allowed to buy. And found ways and means of repeating. They never can vote honorably. The newspapers reported that by 11 P.M. 38,647 tickets had been sold. Also they announced twenty-three engagements of perfectly beautiful ticket-sellers. Grace Goodchild's name led the list. This time Mr. Goodchild did not deny it. The reporters refused to listen to him, damn 'em! On Tuesday the receipts fell on. Only 7,363 were sold. No engagements. On Wednesday the sales rose. The _offers_ of marriage aggregated 18,889. Sixteen engagements of poor but perfectly beautiful girls to rich but devilishly wise old men! A truly remarkable thing happened. Everybody ceased to be concerned with the sales of tickets or the object thereof. Crowds before the newspaper offices patiently watched for announcements of fresh betrothals. Every time one went on the bulletin-board the spectators cheered as if it were a home run instead of a prospective marriage. The betrothed reported to H. R. that they found the display of the solitaires interfered with the sales of tickets. He advised them to remove it. They refused. "Well," he said, coldly, "the one who sells the most tickets will be declared the most beautiful of the hundred. Of course you don't care what men think of your looks so long as one man thinks you are the most beautiful. He must, since he is your fiancé. By all means show the solitaire. I respect your modesty. Besides, it keeps you from receiving offers that you cannot, with honor, entertain."