one day, he began a story about a poor little outcast boy in a slum.
At first he did not care for it. His soaring spirit disdained boys
in slums. It had its being on higher planes. But he read on, and,
reading on, grew interested, until interest was intensified into
absorption For the outcast boy in the slums, you must know, was
really the kidnapped child of a prince and a princess, and after the
most romantic adventures was enfolded in his parents' arms, married
a duke's beauteous daughter, whom in his poverty he had worshipped
from afar, and drove away with his bride in a coach-and-six.

To little Paul Kegworthy the clotted nonsense was a revelation from
on high. He was that outcast boy. The memorable pronouncement of the
goddess received confirmation in some kind of holy writ. The Vision
Splendid, hitherto confused, crystallized into focus. He realized
vividly how he differed in feature and form and intellect and
character from the low crowd with whom he was associated. His
unpopularity was derived from envy. His manifest superiority was
gall to their base natures. Yes, he had got to the heart of the
mystery. Mrs. Button was not his mother. For reasons unknown he had
been kidnapped. Aware of his high lineage, she hated him and beat
him and despitefully used him. She never gushed, it is true, over
her offspring; but the little Buttons flourished under genuine
motherment. They, inconsiderable brats, were her veritable children.
Whereas he, Paul-it was as plain as daylight. Somewhere far away in
the great world, an august and griefstricken pair, at that very
moment, were mourning the loss of their only son. There they were,
in their marble palace, surrounded by flunkeys all crimson and gold
(men servants were always "gorgeously apparelled flunkeys" in Paul's
books), sitting at a table loaded with pineapples on golden dishes,
and eating out their hearts with longing. He could hear their talk.