a royal coin, a fine, generous forehead and beautiful nose, her
intelligent and kindly eyes, her ample figure, her dignity come from
long, long years of rule. Back of her the Prince of Wales and the Prime
Minister, who in later years I found myself always comparing to little
Mr. Carnegie, the Viscount Curzon with his royal look, and in the
foreground Sir S. Ponsonby-Fane, in white silk stockings, pumps and
buckles, with sword and gold lace, and high-collared swallow-tailed
coat. I admired the queen's black moire dress, her headdress of
priceless lace, her diamonds, her high-necked dress held together with
more diamonds, and her black gloves, in striking contrast to our own. I
was enjoying the picture.

Then my name was called.


I had been thinking such kindly things of England--Mr. Balfour fighting
for general education; Mr. Gladstone struggling to make England push
Turkey back and save Greece; all England raising money for the fire
sufferers of Paris and the Indian famine. What a humanitarian race they
were! I felt as pro-England as any of the satellites in that room, and
almost as much awed. But back of it all was a natural United States
be-natural-as-you-were-born impulse. Neither Back Bay Boston nor Tom's
Philadelphia friends had been able to repress it. When my name was
called and I stepped up, I made the little bow I had practised for hours
the day before and that morning; and then, as I looked into the eyes of
the queen, I held out my hand! It was the instinctive action of a
free-born American.

I have realized in the years since what a real queen she was. Smiling,
she extended her hand--but not to be touched. It was a little wave, a