Elle Swann was everything her name suggested; innately feminine and possessing an infinite quantity of effortless poise. She wholly embodied what many considered to be the definition of a glamorous socialite; she was charismatic without being pretentious, and was blessed with looks proportionate to her sharp wit. She graced every room with her exquisite beauty, charmed with her satire, yet turned heads before a single word escaped from her scarlet-stained lips. Again, we can infer from her name, that Elle Swann had delicate, lithe, almost bird-like limbs, and that she didn’t walk across a meticulously polished floor like any other human being, she glided, noiselessly and fluidly. However, no one, not even the girl that had it all, was perfect. Elle was entirely, regrettably aware of her finely formed bone structure and desirable features. This knowledge resulted in ample snobbishness and opinions of self-worth, as well as the act of treating all those whom she considered ‘below’ her (which was quite a number of people) with disdain. Alas, pride was the worst vice of Elle Swann.
***
The heat was relentless outside, even during the evenings, with the incessant humidity only found during long summer months. Yet as Elle Swann was sitting at her hand-crafted dressing table of exotic African walnut, she was taking comfort in the fact that no weather mother nature was capable of conjuring resulting in any damage to her consistently sleek, honey-colored hair. Preparing for another ball at the Winstons’, she stared at her flawless reflection in her elaborately embellished mirror, gilded with gold, angling her face to the right, then to the left, slowly inspecting her perfectly powdered skin. Her lips curled slowly into prideful smile, an expression not uncommon to Elle. She tucked a stray strand of hair back into it’s place in her painstakingly arranged hairdo, and breathed in the calming perfume of gardenia. She smoothed out her ruffled silk dress that cost no less than three hundred pounds, fingered her new necklace of hammered gold, and frowned. She was lovely, that was evidently undeniable, but she thought her reflection in the mirror needed one final touch. Elle opened her overflowing jewelry box, and slowly selected a gleaming emerald twice the size of a child’s thumbnail, set in 24-karat gold. This ornate, distinctive jewel with her name engraved on the inside of the band was priceless; worth a fortune at the least. And it accented her outfit perfectly. Admiring her reflection one last time, Elle Swann started out the door, and climbed gracefully, as always, into her carriage.
One might think that a woman who had made an appearance in exactly thirty one balls within the last year would be heartily sick of them by now. However, this was not the case for Elle; she cherished parties, yearned for them, longed to be in the company of other socialites. And as the carriage pulled up alongside a grand, Victorian-style mansion with a red brick exterior, complete with stone verandas stretching onto the manicured gardens, Elle could feel the familiar feelings of ecstasy and thrill building up inside her. She was sure to be the belle of the ball again.
And she was. From the moment she entered through the paneled oak doors, she became the focus of attention, recognized by all, ignored by none. Gentlemen clamored for her attention, her lady friends tried to catch her eye, whispering to her about some recent scandal involving a Miss Dupree.
Elle took it all in, a familiar sight, yet so very enthralling. Thick brocade curtains woven with gold thread, covering floor-length arched windows, separating those of status from the vulgar commoners outside. Tables covered in crisp white cloths, piled high with rare and expensive delicacies. Chandeliers of the finest crystal glimmered, illuminating the beautiful scene, casting soft glows on the magnificently attired guests. Dresses of satin and silk, of the latest styles, in an endless array of vibrant colors, swirling. The scene was like a painting! And here she was, in the center of it in all her finery.
The rest of the night passed by in a flurry of laughter and dancing, and when Elle arrived home, she wasn’t the slightest aware of her bare hand. She returned her gold necklace to the jewelry box, and shut the lid inattentively. Still in her world of bliss, she didn’t notice that something was clearly wrong.
An high noon the next day, when sky was awash in light and the sun's heat seemed to wilt every flower and blade of grass standing under it, there was a rapid succession of knocks on the front door of Elle Swann. She was resting languidly on a plush couch, and her glance flitted to the window, onto the streets and sidewalks that were busting with activity. Commoners were always in a rush, Elle thought. The visitor at the door knocked thrice again, clearly growing more impatient by the second. She heard the faint, pattering footsteps of Celia, her servant girl, as Celia opened the door for the visitor. The footsteps amplified, and Celia’s petite figure appeared before Elle. “Someone’s here to see you, madam. He only asks for a moment of your time.”
“All right, let him know I will see to him shortly.” Elle took her time rising from her seat, and made her way to the door.
Who she set eyes on made her blink twice incredulously. A scraggly, unkempt man with stubble on his chin stood in the doorway, slightly hunched over self-consciously. She eyed the visitor’s shabby clothes, apparently worn again and again until the fabric thinned considerably and had to be roughly patched in various places.
“Who are you, may I ask?”
The visitor spoke with a gruff tone, his eyes cast down. “The name’s Conwell. Jim Conwell.”
“And what, may I ask, are you doing here on my property?” She haughtily composed herself to her full height, lifted her chin, and stared down her nose at the visitor.
“You see,” he paused to clear his throat, covering his mouth with a fist, and Elle saw the grime caked under his fingernails. “You see, I sweep the streets before midnight, when all the fine folk like you have gone home, and I--”
“Excuse me?” Elle interrupted. A street sweeper was in the presence of Elle Swann? She felt rage, a result of her pomposity, slowly welling up inside her, and fought to keep her composure.
“I just--”

“Thank you very much, that will be all.” She shut the heavy oak door in his face.
***
Later that month, Jim Conwell had acquired a comfortable-sized oceanfront home, and retired there immediately. He had gotten enough money to do so, as well as to live opulently for the rest of his life, by selling an emerald ring to a pawnbroker. This ring was one-of-a-kind, set in 24 karat gold. Inside the band of the ring was engraved the name: Elle Swann.