“All the same,” Carmen went on, “though I like them, you haven’t got much vanity if you mean to wear those things to travel East, and land in New York.”

“Why, what’s the matter with ’em, Mrs. Gaylor?” Nick asked.  He spoke carelessly, in the matter of accent as well as of his feeling about the clothes.  He cut off his words in a slipshod way, as if he had never had time to think much about the value or beauty of the English language.  Still, though his speech was not that of a cultivated man, it did not grate on the ear.  His voice was singularly pleasant, even sweet, with something of boyish gaiety in it.

“The things are all right, Nick, and you’re all right in them.  You needn’t worry,” said Carmen.  “Only—­well, I don’t believe there’ll be anything else like them—­or like you either—­in New York.”

Nick looked himself over indifferently.  He wore a “soft” white shirt, with a low collar turned over a black scarf tied anyhow.  There was a leather belt round his waist, which obviated the need of a waistcoat or suspenders.  His short coat and trousers were of navy blue serge.  Everything he had on was neat and of good material, but Carmen smiled when she thought of this tall, belted figure, hatted with a gray sombrero on the back of its head, arriving at one of the best hotels in New York.  Nick was pretty sure to go to one of the best hotels.  He wanted to see life, no doubt, and get his money’s worth.  Her smile was as tender as Carmen’s smile could be, however, and she was pleased that he was not “dressing up” to make an impression on pretty women in the East.

“I don’t care what anybody thinks about me in New York,” said he.  “As long as you excuse me for not having on my Sunday-go-to-meeting rags to dine with you, I don’t mind the rest.”

“I thought you were never coming,” she said, changing the subject.

“So did I, by George!  I thought the fellow’d never go.”

“Was it a deputation to say good-bye?”

“Lord, no, Mrs. Gaylor!  It was a chap you don’t know, I guess.  I only ran up against him lately, since I sold my gusher to the United Oil Company.  He’s their lawyer—­and does some work for the railroad too.  Smart sort of man he seems to be, though kind of stiff when you first know him:  between forty and forty-five, maybe:  name’s Henry Morehouse, a brother of a bank manager in San Francisco.”

“James Morehouse the banker is a very rich, important man,” said Carmen, somewhat impressed by the idea of Nick’s new friend who had stayed too long.  “I’ve never met his family myself.  You know how close I was kept till a year ago.  But I’ve heard of them.  They’re in with the Falconer set and that lot, so it shows they’re smart.  What does Henry Morehouse want, making up to you, Nick?”