She watched her first thunder storm in Chicago with awed pleasure. The hour came, when, a little jaded, feeling dirty and tumbled, feeling excited and headachy and nervous, Martie saw her neighbours in the car begin to straighten garments and gather small possessions. They were arriving! She was silent, as first impressions jumbled themselves together in her tired brain. Wallace, at her elbow, was eager with information. "Look, Mart--this is the Grand Central. They're going to tear all this down! Look--that's the subway--those hoods, where the people are going down! See over that way--this is Forty-Second Street, one of the biggest cross-streets there is--and over that way is Broadway! We can't take the subway, I wish we could--you wait until you see the expresses! But I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll go over and take a 'bus, on the Avenue--see, here's a Childs'--see, there's the new Library! Climb right up on the 'bus, if you get a chance, because then we can see the Park!" Bewildered, dirty, tired, she stumbled along at his side, her eyes moving rapidly over the strange crowds, the strange buildings, the strange streets and crossings. That must be an elevated train banging along; here was a park, with men packed on the benches, and newspapers blowing lazily on the paths. And shops in all the basements--why had no one ever told her that there were shops in all the basements? And a placid church facade breaking this array of trimmed windows and crowded little enterprises! It was hot: she felt her forehead wet, her clothes seemed heavy and sticky, and her head ached dully. "How'd you like it?" Wallace asked enthusiastically. "I love it, sweetheart!" Wallace, frankly embarrassed for money, took her at once to Mrs. Curley's big boarding-house in East Seventieth Street, where the Cluetts had stayed. Mabel had told Martie that "Grandma Curley" was a "character." She was a plain, shrewd, kindly old woman, who lived in an old brownstone house that had been acquired after his death, Martie learned, for a bad debt of her husband's making. She liked everybody and believed in nobody; smiling a deep, mysterious smile when her table or her management was praised. She eyed Martie's fresh beauty appraisingly, immediately suspected her condition, was given the young wife's unreserved confidence, and, with a few brief pieces of advice, left her new boarders entirely to their own devices. Wallace's daring compliments fell upon unhearing ears; she would not lower her prices for anybody, she said. They could have the big room for eighteen, or the little one for fourteen dollars a week. "Sixteen for the big one! You know you like our looks," said Wallace. "I'd be losing money on it, Mr. Bannister. You can take it or leave it, just as you like."