reporter, "it was the name Dimbledon caught my
eye, sir. You see, there was a paragraph in one of our London
exchanges that you had sailed for America. I'm what we call a hotel
reporter; hunt up prominent and interesting people for interviews. I'm
sure yours is a very interesting story, sir." The reporter was a
pleasant, affable young man, and that was why he was so particularly
efficient in his chosen line of work.

"I was not prepared to disclose my identity so soon," said Lord
Monckton ruefully. "But since you have stumbled upon the truth, it is
far better that I give you the facts as they are. Interviewing is a
novel experience. What do you wish to know, sir?"

And thus it was that, next morning, New York--and the continent as
well--learned that Lord Henry Monckton, ninth Baron of Dimbledon, had
arrived in America on a pleasure trip. The story read more like the
scenario of a romantic novel than a page from life. For years the
eighth Baron of Dimbledon had lived in seclusion, practically
forgotten. In India he had a bachelor brother, a son and a grandson.
One day he was notified of the death (by bubonic plague) of these three
male members of his family, the baron himself collapsed and died
shortly after. The title and estate went to another branch of the
family. A hundred years before, a daughter of the house had run away
with the head-gardener and been disowned. The great-great-grand-son of
this woman became the ninth baron. The present baron's life was
recounted in full; and an adventurous life it had been, if the reporter
was to be relied upon. The interview appeared in a London journal,
with the single comment--"How those American reporters misrepresent
things!"

It made capital reading, however; and in servants' halls the newspaper
became very popular. It gave rise to a satirical leader on the
editorial page: "What's the matter with us republicans? Liberty,
fraternity and equality; we flaunt that flag as much as we ever did.
Yet, what a howdy-do when a title comes along! What a craning of
necks, what a kotowing! How many earldoms and dukedoms are not based
upon some detestable action, some despicable service rendered some
orgiastic sovereign! The most honorable thing about the so-called
nobility is generally the box-hedge which surrounds the manse. Kotow;
pour our millions into the bottomless purses of spendthrifts; give them
our most beautiful women. There is no remedy for human nature