going without jewels. I had the required plumes in my hair, and the
veil that was correct form at court, and my lovely evening gown and
pearl-embroidered slippers, which were to me like Cinderella's at the
ball.

Before I left the hotel I asked Tom to look at me critically. I was
still young--very young, very much in love, and unacquainted with the
ways of the world, and so heaven came down into my heart when Tom took
me into his arms and, kissing me, said: "There was never such a lovely
queen."

It was about three o'clock when we reached the Pimlico entrance.
Guards were on duty, and men who looked like princes or very important
personages in costume, white stockings, black pumps, buckles, breeches,
and gay coats, stood at the door. Inside the hall a gold carpet
stretched to the marble stairs. It was a wonderful place, and I wanted
to stop and look. I was conscious of being a "rubber-neck." I might
never see another palace again.

We were guided up wonderful stairs and led into a sumptuous room, where,
with the other guests, we waited for the arrival of the queen and the
royal family. No one does anything or says anything at a salon. A
"drawing-room" is a sacred rite in England. It is recorded on the first
page of the news, taking precedence over wars, decisions of supreme
courts, famines, and international controversies. Her Majesty receives.
To the Englishman, to be presented at court is to be set up in England
as class, to be worshiped by those who have not been in the presence of
the queen, and to pay a little more to the butcher and milliner.

I should have loved that "drawing-room" if I could have avoided the
presentation. It was an impressive picture--the queen with a face like
a royal coin, a fine, generous forehead and beautiful nose, her
intelligent and kindly eyes, her ample figure, her dignity come from
long, long years of rule. Back of her the Prince of Wales and the Prime
Minister, who in later years I found myself always comparing to little
Mr. Carnegie, the Viscount Curzon with his royal look, and in the
foreground Sir S. Ponsonby-Fane, in white silk stockings, pumps and
buckles, with sword and gold lace, and high-collared swallow-tailed
coat. I admired the queen's black moire dress, her headdress of
priceless lace, her diamonds, her high-necked dress held together with
more diamonds, and her black gloves, in striking contrast to our own. I
was enjoying the picture.

Then my name wa