She surprised him.  Her next question surprised him even more.

“What about my weddin’-dress?” she demanded.  “I got nothin’ fittin’ to be married in.”

“I should think a plain, tailored suit—­” he began.

“Then you got another think comin’ to you,” she said, in a hard voice.  “I got nothin’ to do with pickin’ out the groom:  you fixed that to suit yourself.  But I don’t let no man alive pick out my dress.  I want a weddin’-dress.  I want one I want myself.  I want it should be white satin’ an’ real bride-like.  I’ve saw pictures of brides, an’ I know what’s due ’em.  I ain’t goin’ to resemble just me myself, standin’ up to be married in a coat-suit you get some floor-walker to pick out for me.  White satin or nothin’.  An’ a veil and white satin slippers.”

He looked at her helplessly.  “White satin, my dear?  And a veil?”

“Yes, sir.  An’ a shower bokay,” said she, firmly.  “I got to insist on the shower bokay.  If I got to be a bride I’ll be my kind of bride and not yours.”

“My dear child, of course, of course.  You shall choose your own frock,” said he, hastily.  “Only—­under the circumstances, I can’t help thinking that something plain, something quite plain and simple, would be more in keeping.”

“With me?  ‘T wouldn’t, neither.  It’d be something fierce, an’ I won’t stand for it.  I don’t mind bein’ buried in somethin’ plain, but I won’t get married in it.  Ain’t it hard enough as it is, without me havin’ to feel more horrid than what I do already?  I want something to make me feel better about it, and there ain’t anything can do that except it’s a dress I want myself.”

Mr. Champneys capitulated, horse and foot.

“We will go to some good shop immediately after lunch, and you shall choose your own wedding-dress,” he promised, resignedly, marveling at the psychology of women.

It was a very fine forenoon, with a hint of coming autumn in the air.  Even an imminent bridegroom couldn’t altogether dampen the delight of whizzing through those marvelous streets in a taxi.  Then came the even more marvelous world of the department store, which, “by reason of the multitude of all kind of riches, in all sorts of things, in blue clothes, and broidered work, and in chests of rich apparel,” put one in mind of the great fairs of Tyre when Tyre was a prince of the sea, as set forth in the Twenty-seventh Chapter of Ezekiel.

Nancy would have been tempted to marry Bluebeard himself for the sake of some of the “rich apparel” that obliging saleswomen were setting forth for her inspection.  Getting married began to assume a rosier aspect, due probably to the reflection of the filmy and lacy miracles that she might have for the mere choosing.  She would almost have been willing to be hanged, let alone married, in a pink-silk combination.