"I was a boy at the time an’ she was a prima donna." He could not bring himself to own up to a strong woman. "We parted practically at the church door," he went on with melancholy relish, "information came to me that she was already married. I dropped her—or rather I gave her the opportunity of droppin’ me." "How chivalrous! it must have been a painful experience." "It was," said Tuppy emphatically, "more painful for me than for her." They threaded a way through the crowd in the Great Sok. "Now, Miss Boardman," said Tuppy, "you know all that is to be known about me. I’ve told you," he said moodily, "more than I’ve ever told any feller." Tuppy believed, when he said this, he was speaking the truth. It was the surest sign of his confidence and friendship, that he added to the history of his life—a history filed in most newspaper offices, and which appeared at regular intervals in the New York journals, indeed, every time that the strong lady changed her husband—the assurance that he had told his hearer "more than he had ever told anybody else." In this Tuppy was not singular. But to the girl at his side, it was all very new, and all very, very tragic, and there were tears in her eyes as her cavalier led the way down the hill to the town. In spite of his confidence she was ill-prepared for the proposal that followed. It was after dinner, when the cool breezes from the Atlantic made life bearable; when the sea was bathed in moonlight and the shadowy Spanish hills bulked mistily on the ocean’s rim, that Tuppy declared himself. "Miss Boardman," he said suddenly—they were watching the sea from the terrace of the Cecil—"d’ye know I’m nearly a beggar, broke to the wide, unsympathetic world, up to my neck in debt." The attack was sudden and the girl was alarmed. "Lord Tuppy—I’m—I’m sorry," she stammered. "That’s all right," said Tuppy easily, "don’t let that worry you. But I wanted to tell you. An’ there’s another startlin’ statement I want to make, I’ve been talkin’ with your father." "Have you?" faltered the girl. "I have," said Tuppy firmly, "I asked him straight out if he was one of those millionaires that grow as thick as huckleberries in America." For a moment only the girl suspected his motive. "I was frank with him," said Tuppy, "so doosid frank that he nearly chucked me out of the window, but wiser councils prevailed, as dear old Milton says, an’ he listened—Miss Boardman, you’re not rich." She made no reply. "So that’s why I’m goin’ to ask you to come an’ share a ninety pounds a year baronial castle in the suburbs of London. I’ve got a little income, enough to pay the rent an’ buy a library subscription—will you take me?" All this Tuppy said with an assumption of firmness that he was far from feeling. "There’s nothin’ in me—I’m a reed an’ a rotter." "Indeed you mustn’t say that!" she pleaded.