Oh, the joy of it!--you can't think. They had always turned up

their noses at our pretentions, you know; and I had fought back as

well as I could by turning up mine at theirs. They always said it

might be something great and fine to be rightful Shadow of an

earldom, but to merely be shadow of a shadow, and two or three times

removed at that--pooh-pooh! And I always retorted that not to be

able to show four generations of American-Colonial-Dutch Peddler-

and-Salt-Cod-McAllister-Nobility might be endurable, but to have to

confess such an origin--pfew-few! Well, the telegram, it was just a

cyclone! The messenger came right into the great Rob Roy Hall of

Audience, as excited as he could be, singing out, "Dispatch for Lady

Gwendolen Sellers!" and you ought to have seen that simpering

chattering assemblage of pinchbeck aristocrats, turn to stone!

I was off in the corner, of course, by myself--it's where Cinderella

belongs. I took the telegram and read it, and tried to faint--and I

could have done it if I had had any preparation, but it was all so

sudden, you know--but no matter, I did the next best thing: I put my

handkerchief to my eyes and fled sobbing to my room, dropping the

telegram as I started. I released one corner of my eye a moment--

just enough to see the herd swarm for the telegram--and then

continued my broken-hearted flight just as happy as a bird.

Then the visits of condolence began, and I had to accept the loan of

Miss Augusta-Templeton-Ashmore Hamilton's quarters because the

press was so great and there isn't room for three and a cat in mine. And

I've been holding a Lodge of Sorrow ever since and defending myself

The American Claimant