the Reagan's house, half-way down the street, and it might as well have
been, for it was as much beyond our reach.

But it was the one thing we were all going to get some day when we
married rich. And when we got it, we were going to drive up to the Galt
House--that's the Home for Poor and Proud Ladies--and ask for Mrs.
Reagan, who was to be in it in the third floor back, and leave her some
old clothes with the buttons off, and old magazines. None of us could
bear Mrs. Reagan--not a single one.

It is a beautiful house, Mrs. Reagan's is. It has large white pillars
in the front and back, and it's got three bath-rooms, and a big tank in
the back yard. And it has velvet curtains over the lace ones, and gold
furniture and pictures with gold frames a foot wide.

I heard Miss Katherine talking about it to Miss Webb one night. They
were laughing about something Miss Katherine said was the most
impossible of all, and Miss Webb said it was desecrating for such a
stately old house to fall into the hands of such bulgarians. What are
bulgarians? I don't know. But they're not ladies.

Mrs. Reagan is not a lady. The way I found it out was this. Miss Jones,
she's our housekeeper, sent a message to her one day by Bertha Reed and
me about some pickles. Bertha is awful timid, and she didn't know
whether or not we ought to go to the front door; but I did, and I told
her to come on.

"I don't go to back doors, if I don't know my family history," I said.
"I know who I am, and something inside of me tells me where to go." And
I pressed the button so hard I thought I'd broken it unintentional.