Then was the smile of Mrs. Gilson lost forever. It was simultaneously
torpedoed, mined, scuttled, and bombed. It went to the bottom without a
ripple, while Mrs. Gilson snapped, "Aunt Hatty, please don't be vulgar."
"Me?" croaked the little old lady. She puffed at her pipe, and dropped
her elbows on her knees. "My, ain't it hard to please some folks."
"Cousin Hatty, I want Milt to know about our families. I love the dear
old stories," Claire begged prettily.
Mrs. Gilson snarled. "Claire, really----"
"Oh, do shut up, Eva, and don't be so bossy!" yelped the dear little old
lady, in sudden and dismaying rage. "I'll talk if I want to. Have they
been bullying you, Claire? Or your boy? I tell you, boy, these families
are fierce. I was brought up in Brooklyn--went through all the
schools--used to be able to misplay the piano and mispronounce French
with the best of 'em. Then Gene's pa and I came West together--he had an
idea he'd get rich robbing the Injuns of their land. And we went broke.
I took in washing. I learned a lot. I learned a Gilson was just the
same common stuff as a red-shirt miner, when he was up against it. But
Gene's pa succeeded--there was something about practically stealing a
fur schooner--but I never was one to tattle on my kin. Anyway, by the
time Gene come along, his pa was rich, and that means aristocratic.
"This aristocracy west of Pittsburgh is just twice as bad as the
snobbery in Boston or New York, because back there, the families have
had their wealth long enough--some of 'em got it by stealing real estate
in 1820, and some by selling Jamaica rum and niggers way back before the
Revolutionary War--they've been respectable so long that they know
mighty well and good that nobody except a Britisher is going to question
their blue blood--and oh my, what good blueing third-generation money
does make. But out here in God's Country, the marquises of milling and
the barons of beef are still uneasy. Even their pretty women, after
going to the best hair-dressers and patronizing the best charities,
sometimes get scared lest somebody think they haven't either brains or
breeding.
"So they're nasty to all low pussons like you and me, to make sure we
understand how important they are. But lands, I know 'em, boy. I'm kept
pensioned up here, out of the way, but I read the social notes in the
papers and I chuckle---- When there's a big reception and I read about
Mrs. Vogeland's pearls, and her beautiful daughter-in-law, I remember
how she used to run a boarding-house for miners---"Well, I guess it's just as shoddy in the East if you go far enough
back. Claire, you're a nice comforting body, and I hate to say it, but
the truth is, your great-grandfather was an hostler, and made his first
money betting on horses. Now, my, I oughtn't to tell that. Do you mind,
dearie?"