ed Mr. Sewall very little of my time
in private. I refused to go off alone with him anywhere, and the result
was that he was forced to attend teas and social functions if he wanted
to indulge in his latest fancy. The affair, carried on as it was before
the eyes of the whole community, soon became the main topic of
conversation. I felt myself being pointed out everywhere I went as the
girl distinguished by the young millionaire, Breckenridge Sewall. My
friends regarded me with wonder.

Before a month had passed a paragraph appeared in a certain periodical
in regard to the exciting affair. I burst into flattering notoriety.
What had before been slow and difficult sailing for Edith and me now
became as swift and easy as if we had added an auxiliary engine to our
little boat. We found ourselves receiving invitations from hostesses who
before had been impregnable. Extended hands greeted us--kindness,
cordiality.

Finally the proud day arrived when I was invited to Grassmere as a
guest. One afternoon Breck came rushing in upon me and eagerly explained
that his mother sent her apologies, and would I be good enough to fill
in a vacancy at a week-end house-party. Of course I would! Proudly I
rode away beside Breck in his automobile, out of the gates of the
Homestead along the state road a mile or two, and swiftly swerved inside
the fifty thousand dollar wrought-iron fence around the cherished
grounds of Grassmere. My trunks followed, and Edith's hopes followed
too!

It was an exciting three days. I had never spent a night in quite such
splendid surroundings; I had never mingled with quite such smart and
fashionable people. It was like a play to me. I hoped I would not forget
my lines, fail to observe cues, or perform the necessary business
awkwardly. I wanted to do credit to my host. And I believe I did. Within
two hours I felt at ease in the grand and luxurious house. The men were
older, the women more experienced, but I wasn't uncomfortable. As I
wandered through the beautiful rooms, conversed with what to me stood
for American aristocracy, basked in the hourly attention of butlers and
French maids, it occurred to me that I was peculiarly fitted for such a
life as this. It became me. It didn't seem as if I could be the little
girl who not so very long ago lived in the old French-roofed house with
the cracked walls, stained ceilings and worn Brussels carpets, at 240
Main Street, Hilton, Mass. But the day Breck asked me to ma