"I could kill him!" she hissed, and left the room.
Frederick came to her. "Miss Goodchild, there are five reporters waiting
to see you."
"Say I'm not at home!" Then she called the man back. "Ask them what they
want," and went up-stairs to her room.
Frederick returned presently and reported: "They say they will do
themselves the honor to inform you in person if you will be kind enough
to see them. And, Miss--" He paused. He had exceeded his duty.
"What is it, Frederick?" asked Grace, knowing that the imperturbable
cockney was perturbed.
"There is quite a crowd outside. They are photographing the ladies,
ma'am."
"What ladies?"
"Begging your pardon, Miss Vandergilt and the others, ma'am."
"Where?"
"Just in front of the door. Mr. Goodchild had some trouble in getting
in, ma'am. He's quite vexed about it, but it wasn't my fault, ma'am," he
said, forgetting that he was a menial; that is, protesting against
injustice. "I couldn't help it, ma'am."
"Very well, Frederick," she said, graciously, and descended.
Five reporters were politely listening to Mr. Goodchild's vituperations.
Therefore his daughter walked down the stairs as majesty descends from
the dais. One of the reporters started to meet her half-way.
"Hey! confound you, come down!" shrieked papa.
"Miss Goodchild, we wished to ask you if you had been chosen as the
first of the perfectly beautiful hundred. Now that we have seen you at
close range, the question is unnecessary."
She smiled slightly; then ceased to smile. The intelligent young man
proceeded courteously: "Will you therefore kindly tell us when the
wedding will be?"
All reporters are psychologists in their interrogations. The other
reporters ceased listening to Mr. Goodchild and as politely as the
circumstances permitted took out paper and pencils.
When an angry man is suddenly deprived of his audience he becomes a
mental assassin.
Mr. Goodchild blamed it on H. R.
"She'll never marry that infernal idiot!" he shrieked. He was the head
of the house.
"Ah yes," said the diplomatist on the stair, looking as though he had
memorized the exact words. "Ah yes! June! Thank you." He nodded
gratefully at Mr. Goodchild, jotted down a date, and put the paper in
his pocket.
"Congratulations, Miss Goodchild," he said to her, with profound
respect, and descended. In the hall he said to his colleagues: "Come on,
boys. We've got the month. She _is_ Number One, and--"
"If you dare to print anything I'll have you fired," fumed Mr.
Goodchild.
"If you were a younger man I'd tell you to fire your grandmother, sir.
But I fear me she is, alas! no more. In the mean time, Mr. Goodchild,
will you be good enough to pose for our artist? Look pleasant, please.
You'll have to close your mouth to do it. Wilson, you may begin filming
when ready!" he said to his photographer, who had just pushed past
Frederick.
Sounds of cheering and applause came from the street. The
ultra-fashionable friends of Grace Goodchild, having been photographed,
were shaking hands with the artists and spelling their own names to the
reporters.
The gaping proletariate, seeing such graciousness, recognized the
aristocracy of the democracy and were cheering madly. An aristocracy
whose sense of humor makes it kindly is lasting.
"Them's real swells!" shrieked a red-headed girl who carried a large
bandbox.
More cheers.
At that moment Grace Goodchild, impelled by an irresistible curiosity
appeared at her door.
"_There she is!_ Hooray!" proudly shrieked two hundred and eighteen
potential Socialists, making room for Bishop Phillipson.
Hoping they were not too late for the wedding, the throngs clapped
furiously. Even at marriages there are encore fiends.
"How do you do, my child?" inquired the Bishop, with a tolerant smile.
"Please turn around, Bishop!" shrieked the _Journal_ artist. He was paid
by the portrait.
The Bishop did so, smiled benignantly, saw the shutter open and close,
and then said, deprecatingly:
"I do not wish my picture taken, sir."
"No, sir. Will you give us another shot, Bishop?"
The reverend gentleman waited a moment and then shook his head and
turned his back rebukingly on the photographers, who a second time had
not respected his wishes.
"Such is fame, Bishop Phillipson," Grace told him, with a smile.
"Reflected greatness, rather," said the Bishop, with his courtly
kindliness.
"It's an infernal outrage!" came in a husky voice from the house.
"It's papa. He doesn't understand--"
"He and I are too old, I fear," smiled the Bishop, mournfully. "And how
is H. R., my dear?"
She shook her head and frowned. Always that person!
"A most remarkable young man," pursued the Bishop, congratulatorily. He
had received three and one-half bushels of letters from utter strangers,
commending his practical Christianity and his highly intelligent plan
for feeding the hungry. Five vestry-men also had expressed their
gratification that his name headed the list of the men who had made New
York the greatest city of the hemisphere. It looked as though the hungry
were to be fed.
The Bishop and Grace moved out of the doorway to allow the reporters to
pass, and were themselves about to enter the house when a sound of
cheering made them halt in their tracks.
A vast crowd was walking up the Avenue. In the van marched one of
H. R.'s free sandwiches. He was dressed in crimson broadcloth (from
Morton & Co. as per the next morning's accounts) and he wore a shining
silk hat (Fox Brothers, as per same in the _Times_, _Herald_, and
_Tribune_). The sandwich-board was a most gorgeous affair--a shield of
burnished gold (by Cellini & Co., Florentine frame-makers) on which were
the arms of the City of New York in heraldic colors. Beneath, in
six-inch letters of glittering turquoise enamel, was:
[Illustration: THE FIRST OF THE PERFECTLY BEAUTIFUL 100 IS GRACE
GOODCHILD OF 777 FIFTH AVENUE.]
In front of the Goodchild mansion the stalwart free sandwich stopped,
faced Miss Goodchild, raised his glittering top-hat, and held it in the
air, Beau Brummelesquely.
Andrew Barrett was immediately behind the herald of the free and
intelligent people of the greatest city of the New World.
A hush fell on the multitude.
"Speech!" shrieked Andrew Barrett.
"Speech!" shrieked twelve hundred and thirty-eight intelligent
New-Yorkers and seven bankers.
"There's Bishop Phillipson!" shrilled a correctly gowned elderly lady,
pointing a jeweled lorgnette at the Bishop of New York. It meant the
Church approved.
"Hooray for the Bishop! Bishop! Bishop!"
"_Vox populi, vox Dei_," murmured the Bishop to himself.
"Say something, my child," he gently urged Grace. "After all, we may
dislike the way it is done, but if the hungry are fed we may be
forgiven."
Grace Goodchild burned with desire to make a wonderful speech to prove
that her greatness was her very own. They wanted her, not H. R., this
time! It was _her_ triumph, not his.
Alas! She did not know what to say. She did not even know how to say it.
She therefore shook her head angrily.
"Speech!" shouted the crowd, twice as vehemently as before. They always
want to hear what you don't wish to say.
The cameras were clicking away madly. They sounded like the
telegraph-room of a national convention.
Five-dozen healthy young persons began chanting, rhythmically:
"Speech! Speech! Speech!--speech!--speech!"
Grace thought they were saying:
"His Peach! His Peach! His Peach! Peach! Peach!"
She hotly resented the intimation of H. R.'s ownership, but the
sincerity of the tribute paralyzed her. The sandwich-man had been
amiably told by Andrew Barrett, "Hold the pose, you slob!" and did so.
His immobility was most impressive. His shield dazzled Grace. She
recalled, in a flash, Geraldine Farrar.
She bowed to the sandwich, then to right and left, kissed her hand to
the crowd of voters and not-yet voters, and ran blushing into the house.
The storm of applause broke loose. The very house rocked drunkenly as
the sound-waves dashed themselves against the facade.
The strenuous, nerve-racking life of New York compelled the crowd to
linger for an hour. It was not until they began to break off bits of the
bronze railing and chip souvenirs from the portico columns that the
Goodchilds' butler sent a hurry call for the police.
The lieutenant's official version was cold and formal.