“It’s a beautiful name, beautiful. Pity I didn’t think of it before I wrote the usurper. But I’ll be ready for him when he answers.” CHAPTER V. No answer to that telegram; no arriving daughter. Yet nobody showed any uneasiness or seemed surprised; that is, nobody but Washington. After three days of waiting, he asked Lady Rossmore what she supposed the trouble was. She answered, tranquilly: “Oh, it’s some notion of hers, you never can tell. She’s a Sellers, all through—at least in some of her ways; and a Sellers can’t tell you beforehand what he’s going to do, because he don’t know himself till he’s done it. _She’s_ all right; no occasion to worry about _her_. When she’s ready she’ll come or she’ll write, and you can’t tell which, till it’s happened.” It turned out to be a letter. It was handed in at that moment, and was received by the mother without trembling hands or feverish eagerness, or any other of the manifestations common in the case of long delayed answers to imperative telegrams. She polished her glasses with tranquility and thoroughness, pleasantly gossiping along, the while, then opened the letter and began to read aloud: KENILWORTH KEEP, REDGAUNTLET HALL, ROWENA-IVANHOE COLLEGE, THURSDAY. DEAR PRECIOUS MAMMA ROSSMORE: 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 the 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.