And, as she stops for breath, it's about the first chance I've had to
spring anything on her. Old Hickory hadn't told me not to use his
name, and was I to blame if he'd overlooked that point?

"Yes'm," says I; "I'll tell Mr. Ellins."

"Who?" says she, steadyin' her wanderin' gaze. "Mr. Ellins?"

"Old Hickory," says I. "He's president of the Corrugated Trust, ma'am."

"Really!" says she. "How odd! I--I used to know a young man of that
name--a pushing, presuming, impudent fellow. In fact, he had the
audacity to call on me several times. He was quite impossible
socially; uncouth, awkward, rough spoken. A mere clerk, I believe.
And I--well, I was rather a belle that season, I suppose. At least, I
did not lack suitors. A brilliant season it was for me too, my first.
Our dinners, receptions, dances, were affairs of importance. How this
raw Middle-Westerner came to be invited I've forgotten. Through my
father, I presume. I had hardly noticed him among so many. At least,
I am sure I never gave him an excuse for thinking that he could-- Oh,
it was outrageous. I had been trying to dance with him and had given
it up. We were in the little conservatory, watching the others,
when--well, I found myself in his arms, crushed there. He--he was
kissing me violently. I suppose I must have screamed before I fainted.
Anyway, there was a scene. He was given his hat and coat, shown the
door. Father was in a rage. Of course, after that he was ostracized.
I never saw him again, never forgave him. And now-- Do you think this
can be the same Mr. Ellins? He sent you to me, did he not? Did he
mention anything about--"