"Oh, Lucy," I says to her right off, "ain't it too bad about Nick? He ain't no more like he use' to be than a motor is like a mule."
Lucy, she flushed up instant. "I thought," says she, "he was real improved."
"Land, yes, improved!" I says. "Improved out of all recognizing him."
She staggered me some by giving a superior smile. "Of course," she says, "he's all city ways now. Of course he is."
Yes, of course he was. I thought of her words over and over again during that lunch. His private car had a little table fitted in most every seat and laid, all white, with pretty dishes and silver and flowers. Electric fans were going here and there. The lights were lighted, though it was broad day and broader. The porter, in a white coat, was frisking round with ice and glasses. But, most magnificent of all, was Mr. Nicholas Nordman, standing in the middle of the aisle in pure white serge.
"So pleased," says he. "So very pleased. Now this is good of you all to come."
I s'pose what we done was to chat; that, I figger, would be the name of it. But when he set us all down to the little tables, four and four, a deathlike silence fell on the whole car. It was hard enough to talk anyhow. Add to that the interestingness of all this novelty, and not one of us could work up a thing to say.
Mr. Nordman took the minister and Lucy Hackett and me to his table, being we were all odd ones, and begun to talk benevolent about the improvements that a little town of this size ought to have.
"I s'pose they have grand parks and buildings in the cities, Nick?" says Lucy.
"Haven't you ever been to see them?" says he—oh, so kind!