“Just where, and in what, am I lacking?” she asked, most humbly.

“A creative artist would not care a fig for truth.  He creates an impression of truth out of a lie if necessary.”

“But I am in the direct line from Ananias,” she protested.  “I inherit creative talent of that brand.”

So they laughed and chattered, in the first real companionship they had ever known.

True to the plan, they ascended the stage at Eighteenth Street, Bambi in a flutter of happiness.  As the panorama of that most fascinating highway unrolled before them, she constantly touched this and that and the other object with the wand of her vivid imagination.  Jarvis watched her with amused astonishment, for the first time really thoroughly aware of her.  Again he noticed that wherever she was she was a lodestone for all eyes.  He decided that it was not beauty, in the strictest sense of the word, but a sort of radiance which emanated from her like an aura.

Twenty-third Street cut across their path with its teeming throngs.  Madison Square lay smiling in the sunshine like a happy courtesan, with no hint of its real use as Wayside Inn for all the old, the poor, the derelict, whose tired feet could find refuge there.  The vista of the avenue lay ahead.

“It’s like a necklace of sparkling pearls,” Bambi said, with incessant craning of her neck.  “I feel like standing up and singing ’The Song of the Bazaars.’  There isn’t a stuff, nor a silk, nor a gem from Araby to Samarkand that isn’t here.”

“It bewitches you, doesn’t it?” Jarvis commented.

“Think of the wonder of it!  Camel trains, and caravans, merchant ships on all the seas, trains, and electric trucks, all bringing the booty of the world to this great, shining bazaar for you and me.  It’s thrilling.”

“So it is,” he agreed.  “I hope you mark the proportion of shops for men—­dresses, hats, jewels, furs, motor clothes, tea rooms, candy shops, corsetieres, florists, bootmakers, all for women.  Motor cars are full of women.  Are there no men in this menagerie?”

“No.  They are all cliff-dwellers downtown.  They probably wear loin cloths of a fashionable cut,” she laughed back at him.

“They all look just alike—­so many manikins on parade.  I suppose there are distinctions in class.  There must be some shopgirls in this crowd.  Can you distinguish them?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.  Not by cut, for the general line is the same for ’Judy O’Grady and the Captain’s Lady,’ but there is a subtle difference to the feminine eye.”

“But you don’t look like all the rest of them.”

“No, alas, I look distinctly suburban.  All I need is a package to make the disguise complete.  Oh, Jarvis, do let’s hurry and make much red gold, so I can look like these finished things that trip up Fifth Avenue.”

“You want to be like them—­like those dolls?” he scorned, with a magnificent gesture.