tresor had adopted me for
child and companion, subject to her kind whims and tyrannies. But if
she took me here and took me there, and clad me like a princess, I was
none the less aware of the fact that I was without a penny--morbidly
aware of it without doubt. But it disposed me to look with favor on no
rich man's suit, and the lover as penniless as I and as fine as my
ideal lover had not yet appeared. It made me almost hate the face and
form, the color, the hair, that they dared to call Titianesque, speak
of as if it were the free booty of pigment and canvas, and wish to
drag captive in the golden chains of their wealth. When I had met
Colonel Vorse, a year ago, twice my age though he was, he was the
first one I had wished as poor as I--he the plebeian newly rich. Yet
not so newly rich was he that he had not had time to become used to
his riches, to see the kingdoms of the earth and weigh them in his
balance, to serve his country on the battle-field, and his State in
the council-chamber; and, for the rest, contact with the world is
sadly educating.

"I often look at Colonel Vorse among the men born in the purple," said
Mrs. Montresor once--she thought people born in the purple were simply
those who had never earned their living--"and he is the superior of
them all. What a country it is where a man keeping a common tavern in
the first half of his life may make himself the equal of sovereigns in
the other half! I don't understand it; he is the finest gentleman of
them all. And he looks it. Don't you think so, Helena?"

But I never told Mrs. Montresor what I thought. It is all very well to
generalize and to be glad that certain institutions produce certain
effects; but of course you are superior to the institutions, or you
wouldn't be generalizing so, and all the more, of course, superior to
the effects, and so I don't see how it signifies to you personally.

"You ought to have your head carried on a pike," said Mrs. Montresor,
again. "You will, if we ever have any _bonnets rouges_ in America. You
are the aristocrat pure and simple. The Princess Lamballe was nothing
to you. You think humanity exists so that _nous autres_, by standing
on it, may get the light and air. You are sure that you are made of
different clay--the canaille of street mud, for instance, and you of
the fine white stuff from which they mould Dresden china. You are
quite a study to me, my love. I expect to see you marry a pavior yet,
either one who l