“Why, she might just as well be in heaven at once!” he thought, and shuddered.  “I’ve got to do something about it.”

“Marcia,” he said to his wife, “I want you to help me out with Mrs. Peter Champneys.  Call on her.  Talk to her.  Then tell me what to do for her.  She’s changed—­heaps—­in three years.  She’s—­well, I think she’s an unusual person, Marcia.”

A few days later Mrs. Jason Vandervelde called on Mrs. Peter Champneys, and at sight of Nancy in her black frock experienced something of the emotion that had moved her husband.  She felt inclined to rub her eyes.  And then she wished to smile, remembering how unnecessarily sorry she and Jason had been for young Peter Champneys.

Marcia Vandervelde was an immensely clever and capable woman; perhaps that partly explained her husband’s great success.  She looked at the girl before her, and realized her possibilities.  Mrs. Peter was for the time being virtually a young widow, she had no relatives, and she was co-heir to the Champneys millions.  Properly trained, she should have a brilliant social career ahead of her.  And here she was shut up—­in a really beautiful house, of course—­with nobody but an insufferable frump of an unimportant Mrs. MacGregor!  The situation stirred Mrs. Vandervelde’s imagination and appealed to her executive ability.

Mrs. Vandervelde liked the way she wore her hair, in thick red plaits wound around the head and pinned flat.  It had a medieval effect, which suited her coloring.  Her black dress was soft and lusterless.  She wore no jewelry, not even a ring.  There were shadows under her grave, gray-green eyes.  Altogether, she looked individual, astonishingly young, and pathetically alone.  Mrs. Vandervelde’s interest was aroused.  Skilfully she tried to draw the girl out, and was relieved to discover that she wasn’t talkative; nor was she awkward.  She sat with her hands on the arms of her chair, restfully; and while you spoke, you could see that she weighed what you were saying, and you.

“I am going to like this girl, I think,” Marcia Vandervelde told herself.  And she looked at Nancy with the affectionate eyes of the creative artist who sees his material to his hand.

“Jason,” she said to her husband, some time later, “what would you think if I should tell you I wished to take Anne Champneys abroad with me?”

“I’d say it was the finest idea ever—­if you meant it.”

“I do mean it.  My dear man, with proper handling one might make something that approaches a classic out of that girl.  There’s something elemental in her:  she’s like a birch tree in spring, and like the earth it grows in, too, if you see what I mean.  I want to try my hand on her.  I hate to see her spoiled.”

“It’s mighty decent of you, Marcia!” said he, gratefully.

“Oh, you know how bored I get at times, Jason.  I need something real to engage my energies.  I fancy Anne Champneys will supply the needed stimulus.  I shall love to watch her reactions:  she’s not a fool, and I shall be amused.  If she managed to do so well with nobody but poor old Mr. Champneys and that dreary MacGregor woman, think what she’ll be when I get through with her!”