Nancy was silent when she appeared before Mr. Champneys in her new clothes.  She thought that if she had been allowed to pick them out for herself, instead of having been hypnotized—­“bulldozed” is what she called it—­into plain old dowdy duds by two shopwomen and a Jew manager, she’d have given him more for his money.

Mr. Champneys, looking her over critically, admitted that the girl was at least presentable.  From hat to shoes she gave the impression of being well and carefully dressed.  But her aspect breathed dissatisfaction, her bearing was ungraciousness itself; nor did the two women clerks, trained to patience, tact, and politeness as they were, altogether manage to conceal their unfavorable opinion of her; even the clever, smiling young Jew, used to managing women shoppers, failed to hide the fact that he was more than glad to get this one off his hands.

Nancy hadn’t taken time to eat her dinner before leaving the Baxter house, nor had Mr. Champneys had his lunch.  They drove to his hotel, both hungry, and had their first meal together.  Nancy hadn’t been trained to linger over meals:  one ate as much as one could get, in as short a space of time as possible.  Mr. Champneys was grateful to a merciful Providence that he had ordered that repast served in his private sitting-room.

Her hunger quite satisfied, she shoved her plate aside, sighed, stretched luxuriously, and yawned widely, like the healthy animal she was.

“What we got to do now?  Them women at the store said they’d get the rest of my things here, along with the travelin’-bags, in a coupla hours.  I got a swell suit-case, didn’t I?  And oh, them toilet things!  But between now and then, what you want I should do?”

It was then half-after four, and the train they were to take didn’t leave until half-after seven.

“What would you like to do?” he asked.

“Can I go to the movies?”

He thought it an excellent idea.  It would give him some idea of the girl’s mental processes; the psychology of the proletariat, he thought, could be studied to advantage in their reaction to the movies.

He sat beside her for an unhappy hour while a famous screen comedian did the things with his feet and his backbone for which his managers paid him more in one year than the United States pays its Presidents in ten.  At each impossible climax Nancy shrieked with laughter, the loud, delighted laughter of a pleased child.  Her enthusiasm for the slapstick artist provoked him, but at the same time that gay laughter tickled his ears pleasantly.  There’s plenty of good in a girl who can laugh like that!  After the grimacing genius there followed a short drama of stage mother-love, in which the angel-child dies strenuously in his little white bed.  Nancy dabbled her eyes, and blew her nose with what her captious companion thought unnecessary vigor.

“Ain’t it movin’?”

“Yes.  Moving pictures,” was the cold response.  And to himself he was saying, defiantly:  “Well, what else could I expect?  She’s not a whit worse than the vast majority!  She’s got the herd-taste.  That’s perfectly natural, under the circumstances.  When I get her well in hand, she will be different.”