"Am I nice?" she asked, quickly.

"You sure are," he replied, smiling.

"In these rags," she demanded, with a sudden flash of passion that
thrilled him. "Look at the holes." She showed rips and worn-out
places in the sleeves of her buckskin blouse, through which gleamed
a round, brown arm. "I sew when I have anythin' to sew with. . . .
Look at my skirt--a dirty rag. An' I have only one other to my name.
. . . Look!" Again a color tinged her cheeks, most becoming, and
giving the lie to her action. But shame could not check her violence
now. A dammed-up resentment seemed to have broken out in flood. She
lifted the ragged skirt almost to her knees. "No stockings! No Shoes!
. . . How can a girl be nice when she has no clean, decent woman's
clothes to wear?"

"How--how can a girl. . ." began Jean. "See here, miss, I'm beggin'
your pardon for--sort of stirrin' you to forget yourself a little.
Reckon I understand. You don't meet many strangers an' I sort of
hit you wrong--makin' you feel too much--an' talk too much. Who an'
what you are is none of my business. But we met. . . . An' I reckon
somethin' has happened--perhaps more to me than to you. . . . Now let
me put you straight about clothes an' women. Reckon I know most women
love nice things to wear an' think because clothes make them look pretty
that they're nicer or better. But they're wrong. You're wrong. Maybe
it 'd be too much for a girl like you to be happy without clothes. But
you can be--you axe just as nice, an'--an' fine--an', for all you know,
a good deal more appealin' to some men."

"Stranger, y'u shore must excuse my temper an' the show I made of