Vandervelde said respectfully:  “You’re a brick, Marcia!  If she patterns herself on you—­”

“If she patterns herself on anybody but herself, I’ll wash my hands of her!  It’s because I think she won’t that I’m willing to help her,” said his wife, crisply.

Some six weeks later the Champneys house had been closed indefinitely, the premises put in charge of the efficient Hoichi, and Mrs. MacGregor bonused and another excellent position secured for her, and Mrs. Peter Champneys was making her home with her guardian and his wife.

She might have moved into another world, so different was everything,—­as different, say, as was the acrid countenance of Mrs. MacGregor from the fresh-skinned, clear-eyed, clever, handsome face of Marcia Vandervelde.  Everything interested Nancy.  Her senses were acutely alert.  Just to watch Mrs. Vandervelde, so calm, so poised and efficient, gave her a sense of physical well-being.  She had never really liked, or deeply admired, or trusted any other woman, and the real depths of her feeling for this one surprised her.  Mrs. Vandervelde possessed the supreme gift of putting others at their ease; she had tact, and was at the same time sincere and kind.  Nancy found herself at home in this fine house in which life moved largely and colorfully.

A maid had been secured for her, whom Mrs. Vandervelde pronounced a treasure.  Then came skilful and polite persons who did things to her skin and hair, with astounding results.  After that came the selection of her wardrobe, under Mrs. Vandervelde’s critical supervision.  Although the frocks were black, with only a white evening gown or two for relief, Nancy felt as if she were clothed in a rosy and delightful dream.  She had never even imagined such things as these black frocks were.  When she saw herself in them she was silent, though the super-saleswomen exclaimed, and Mrs. Vandervelde smiled a gratified smile.

“I am going to keep her strictly in the background for the time being, Jason,” she explained to her husband.  “As she’s already married, she can afford to wait a year—­or even two.  I mean her to be perfect.  I mean her to be absolutely sure.  She’s going to be a sensation.  Jason, have you ever seen anything to equal her team-work?  When I tell her what I want her to do, she looks at me for a moment—­and then does it.  One thing I must say for old Mr. Champneys and that MacGregor woman:  they certainly knew how to lay a firm foundation!”

Nancy was perfectly willing to remain in the background.  She was interested in people only as an on-looker.  She responded instantly to Mrs. Vandervelde’s suggestions and instructions, and carried them out with an intelligent thoroughness that at times made her mentor gasp.  It gave her a definite object to work for, and kept her from thinking too much about Glenn Mitchell.  And she didn’t want to think about Glenn Mitchell.  It hurt.  She watched with a quiet wonder—­quite as if