Chapter D: Appleton and Company (4)

A moment’s thought was fuel for a growing indignation. Dating from Detective Addelsee’s bad break she was going to have a down on cops of all nationalities for the rest of her days. In spite of their air of fanaticism, which was more than a little dangerous, this pair of boobs was unmistakably “for it”--as the English say.

“I’m a very respectable girl.”

Both constables had a sneer for Mame’s respectability.

“Oh, run away and play,” she advised. “Run away to Mamma.”

It may have been Mame’s coolness, the growing truculence of her eyes, the scorn of her lips, or her choice of words, but the two zealots began sensibly to draw in their horns.

Personality, no doubt. For as soon as the owner of the new hat and fox could bring her guns into action the Force had an attack of pause.

“Beat it. Hop it.” The grey eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare get gay with me.”

Z 9 and Z 23 retired a few paces and conferred. A moment later they were fading discreetly away in the twilight.

Mame was left mistress of the field. But the incident rankled. Why could not a peaceful American citizeness enjoy the beauty of the evening and develop her personality without being shoved around in this way?

She heard the clocks of the neighbourhood chime six. And then, still ruffled, she left her seat and slowly made her way across the park towards bus Route 29. Alas! she had not gone far when she overtook a couple of elegant tunics. They were strolling twenty yards or so ahead, but even at this distance they were familiar.

On the inspiration of the moment she quickened her pace. Hearing a scrunch of footsteps on the gravel path, one of the cops half turned to look at her as she came up.

“Say, officer!” Mame’s gasp was all excitement: she would have known that sandy-haired, sharp-nosed rube among ten thousand of his kind. “Say, listen, officer!” An imperative hand was laid on an immaculate sleeve. “I seena mutt without his jeans.”

The words were intended to convey an impression of rusticity which, if anything, was overdone. Both bobbies turned as one towards her. Upon their faces was incomprehension grave and dour.

For the credit of the Metropolitan Force, however, the Second Cop was a young man of ripe experience. In fact, he was wearing the Zeebrugge Medal. At the end of 1919 he had been paid off from the Navy, after a brief but honourable career; in the spring of 1921 he had first donned the elegant tunic with belt and whistle complete whose accomplished wearers are the admiration of the world. There was a hiatus of sixteen months in his record which had been filled by slinging hash in a Chicago eating joint. Just as soon as he was able to hitch back his mind to that glad time, and with Mame’s intonation to help him, the process took rather less than thirty seconds, he knew where he was.

Emotion flamed suddenly in the eye of the Second Cop. He turned to the First Cop and spoke urgent words. Both zealots squared their shoulders and tightened their belts.

“Whaur did ye see him?” The demand of Z 9 was tense and stern.

Mame laid a finger to her lip. “Mind you don’t scare the guy.”

It was a superfluous caution. Both constables looked ready to creep through an alderman’s thumb ring without making a sound.

Mame turned left. Her escort followed. The ground was admirably chosen. Immediately in front was a small newspaper kiosk, now padlocked for the night; and just beyond was that work of art, in all its naïveté, which had lately administered a shock to Mame’s moral nature.

Her forefinger drew a bead on the guilty object. “You better take that bo and put him in the pen.”

The boobs did not muster half a smile between them.

“Don’t be silly!” Z 9 spoke severely. “Don’t ye knaw that’s the Ache-iles Statcher?”

“Can that!” Mame looked from one dour face to the other; her lip took its most expressive curl. “Tell King George from me I _am_ surprised. Ache-iles Statcher! I’ll write straight home to our Purity League.”

XV

The next morning, when Mame drew up her blind, there was abundant promise of royal weather. The great day was ushered in by one of those light mists which mask a sky of flawless blue. In London, England, this phenomenon is rarely seen before noon. But when it does appear the whole of that world which lies between the White Stone Pond at Hampstead and Sydenham Hill, with its weird crown, the Crystal Palace, may be said to raise a pæan.

This morning as Mame dealt faithfully with her matutinal kipper and coffee and marmalade, she felt inclined to raise a pæan also. She had slept well in spite of a growing pressure of deep anxieties. Never had she felt more full of zip. To-day was to offer the chance of her life.

The firmness of the barometer and the optimism of the _Daily Mail_ so fully confirmed the prospect from her bedroom window, that a second consecutive day of fine weather was almost a certainty. She would be able to do the function of the afternoon under the best possible conditions.

For nearly a fortnight the wedding had been sedulously boomed by the newspapers. Mame was willing to take their word for it that the celebration of the nuptials of the Marquis of Belfield and Miss Van Alsten of New York was one of the events of the social year. Also she was ready to accept their prediction of an immense gathering at the Church of Saint Margaret, Westminster, and around the railings of Clanborough House, Mayfair.

She decided to forego the ceremony and to concentrate on the reception. By this means she would save the expense of a taxi; and perhaps of fighting her way through the mob. New York had taught her what that meant at a really smart wedding. Besides, having had such luck, she was sure of seeing the second part of the show at close range. If she got to Clanborough House early, she would be able to choose a good position. She wanted to rub shoulders with Royalty and the grandees. It was not so much she was a little snob, although she dared say that really and truly she was, as that she was out to hear and to see, to mark and to learn.

She didn’t take much luncheon. A sort of excitement had been gnawing at her all the morning, and the nearer the time approached to set out for Mayfair, the worse it became. She would have despised herself for lack of coolness had she been equal just then to despising herself for anything. What was there to fuss over? Had it been her fool self that was going to marry the Marquis of Belfield she could not have felt more completely cuckoo.

“Pull your doggone self together, Mame Durrance,” something whispered to her as she shook a little Worcester sauce over the mid-day hash.

Sound advice, but not easy to follow. Even when she put down the bottle of Worcester sauce her hand continued to shake. Yes, she was cuckoo. A highbrow had declared in the office calendar for 1921 that he was the captain of his soul. His exact words should have been easy to remember, for they had been learned sedulously by heart; but the poor old think-box seemed out of business just now. And that was a pity, for that highbrow might have been helpful.

Lack of appetite seemed to add to a feeling of “nerves.” It was absurd. Her job would not be a whit more difficult than a visit to the movies or the play. But she was in a regular twitter. Luncheon hardly touched, she got up from the table and went to her room. The business of dressing took a full hour. Never in her life had she taken such pains with her appearance. She arched her eyebrows with a pencil, she dabbed her face with cream and rose and she artfully brushed her hair, a pretty burnished brown, over what she considered her weakest feature, a pair of slightly nondescript ears.

At last she stood in her camisole to receive her best afternoon frock of blue marocain. Then she slipped about her slender neck a string of pearls even slenderer, whose make-believe, she hoped, would not be visible to the naked eye. Silk stockings, very choice and gossamer, and a cunning pair of shoes with high heels and large buckles completed the picture.

As she gazed at herself in the wretched lodging-house mirror, she wondered why she was taking these pains. Not a soul in the smart mob was likely to glance at her twice. But she looked so pale that she could not tear herself away from the glass without one extra touch of rose. That accomplished, she had recourse to a neat oblong box, which since yesterday morning had graced the top of the chest of drawers. With a little nervous, thrill she produced a pair of folding eyeglasses, the cutest thing out, which with the help of a long tortoise-shell handle you held up to your nose.

The only drawback to this slick contrivance was that for seeing purposes she simply did not need it. Her eyes were like a goshawk’s. The problem was to hold the tortoise-shell folders so as to peer over the top without detracting from their effect.

Conscious that she was a veritable Paula Wyse Ling in action, she moved slowly forth from her room and down the stairs. The tightness of the new shoes required caution. It was a mistake to have them fit so close; a pity, too, that the heels were so horribly high. She had to be careful also with the tortoise-shell folders. If they were not kept at just the right angle going down those dark stairs she might miss a step, pitch down the lot and fetch up with a crash against the drawing room door.

Fashionable life is not all chocolate éclairs and ice-cream sodas. Mame nearly tripped over herself twice in the course of the perilous descent to the first-floor landing. She had just achieved it with a thankful heart, when the door of the drawing room opened, and lo! who should emerge like some old cat from a wicker basket but the queen of the tabbies, the bishop’s niece.

No love was lost between Mame and this lady. She was a species of four-flusher, Mame was sure. Very set up with herself, yet without so much as one shilling to rub against another. To judge by the novels Mame had been reading, to get to know as it were the lie of this comic land, she was convinced that in the cathedral towns and the inland spas the nieces of bishops were three a penny.

She had dignity of a sort, this dame, but when she came full upon Mame, who seemed at the point of falling on to her tortoise-shell folders, she almost let a whoop.

Howbeit, the fact that she was a bishop’s niece had the power to save her. Suddenly she gazed over Mame’s head and then muttered how glad she was that it was such a fine day. But Mame, in spite of tight shoes and a general _malaise_, felt the cold and stern joy of battle.

By a discreet use of the tortoise-shell folders she was able to peer not so much through the middle as over the top. Then she lifted her good chin, which she knew to be one hundred per cent American, and said in that clear high voice which she had practised in secret from the hour she had first heard poor Mr. Falkland Vavasour put it over, “I’ll give your mother-love to King George.”

XVI

There was no need to hurry over the business of getting to Clanborough House. In fact, Mame had intended to walk, but the new shoes were so tight that she hailed the first taxi she saw. Instead, however, of giving the sublime address, she prudently said Selfridge’s. She had been over the line of route already. Clanborough House was an easy five minutes on foot from that famous store; it would cost less and consume a certain amount of time, of which there was more than enough, if she walked the remainder of the distance. A gentle stroll, moreover, would help her to get on terms with her fashionable self.

At Selfridge’s she discharged her taxi. Then growing more collected every yard, in spite of the pinching of her shoes, she quietly sauntered through a series of by-streets until she turned a corner and came upon the sign Clanborough Street W.1.

Here she was. At once she descried an awning in the middle distance. The awning was striped red and white. It stretched from the kerb, across the pavement, beyond the railings, along a kind of paved courtyard, and finally merged in the sombre stonework of a gloomy building, a sort of cross between a workhouse and a penitentiary, which since the year of grace 1709 had borne the name of Clanborough House.

Beneath the awning’s entire length ran a red carpet. Mame was so early, it was hardly likely that the first guests would be back from the church within the next half hour. That was her own calculation, which she was careful to verify by the watch on her wrist and also by the clock on the adjacent church tower of St. Sepulchre. But the wedding-going public had assembled already; not merely in twos and threes but in fair-sized battalions. The Metropolitan police had assembled also; not in twos and threes either, but a round thirty or so good-humoured and efficient men, who, subject to their own little vagaries, as Mame was in a position to bear witness, were yet past masters in handling clotted masses of the British cit.

This pleasant afternoon of early spring they were all out to do their job with grace and skill. They had drawn a cordon round Clanborough House and its environs. As Mame came up she observed that privileged beings armed with cameras were in the middle of the road. This caused her some slight regret that she had not driven up to the awning in style and had the door opened by a policeman. It was reasonably certain that she would have been the first guest to arrive and would therefore have been a good subject for the camera. With a bit of luck the new hat and fox might have found their way into the New York papers.

It seemed a pity to have missed that chance. Life, however, still held one or two agreeable things. One of these was the fact that the first policeman to challenge her progress, when in order to dissociate herself from the crowd she stepped off the sidewalk and took to the roadway, was no less than that identical young cop whom she had met the previous evening in Hyde Park.

Life is full of gay surprises. For Mame at this moment it was a delicious affair. To be stopped by that veritable baby in the broad light of day, to be accosted before the multitude, and to be politely requested not to walk in the road was about as good a thing as could have happened to her. The sight of the dour but well-cut features, of the sandy hair and the unsmiling face filled her at once with the joy that warriors feel.

Now that the big moment had come she was no longer cuckoo. Like any other American citizeness she was reacting just naturally to the occasion. The sight of that policeman, the sound of his voice, removed the last trace of stage fright.

“Ye can’t walk along hair, miss.”

“Why not?”

“Unless ye’ve a ticket for the r-r-reception.”

Torn between an ambition to behave like a peeress and a powerful desire to put one over on the constable, the wearer of the new hat and fox opened her vanity bag and haughtily produced her invite.

The young bobby, at the sight of that magic bit of pasteboard and with the eyes of many superior officers upon him, drew himself to his full height and saluted the new hat and fox as only a Scots policeman could have done.

Coolly and with fixity of mind, Mame went through some warlike evolutions with her tortoise-shell folders. A whole series of evolutions. She seemed to detect all about her a sudden joyous clicking of cameras. Her picture was going to be in the New York papers after all.

It was the proudest moment life so far had given her. But she was equal to it. Now that she was fairly in at the deep end, the springs of being seemed automatically to tighten up. She was going to swim. And she was going to swim all the better for having so recently distrusted the power of her breast stroke and the freedom of her leg action.

The eyes of the world were upon the tortoise-shell folders. In Paula Wyse Ling’s opinion there was nothing like them. Paula was right as usual. Mame was conscious of the gaze of the _Daily Lyre_-consuming public growing rounder and rounder. She could almost hear the suckers asking, Which Little Nob Is This?

XVII

Mame’s progress to the awning was a triumph. Bobby after bobby passed her along. Once she was fairly under it and she felt the red carpet beneath her high-heeled shoes, of whose perils she was still aware, she bent her mind to the serious business of being Lady Clara de Vere.

Everything seemed to make that business easy. From admiring public and saluting cops in the street, to groom of the chambers, major domo, butlers, footmen and what not in the mansion itself, all were careful to see that she didn’t step out of the picture. Never in her life had she felt so exhilarated as she walked on very slowly towards the white marble staircase.

There was plenty of time to look at the Lawrences and the Romneys. She was the first guest to arrive. The others, who were evidently a most distinguished crowd, were all at the church. Except for the servants she seemed to have the whole place to herself.

If she had not had a good nerve those jolly old hirelings might have put one over on her. They were all male; very numerous, very starched, very stand-off; in fact, they were reeking with Class. She had not seen any hired men to compare with these.

The house was exactly like those fake interiors you see on the movies, except that this one was real. It might have been a royal palace. She had never been anywhere like it. As she walked alone and delicately up that wonderful staircase she could hardly believe in her surroundings. Equally hard to believe in herself. Mame Durrance must be dreaming.

In a sense she was dreaming. Halfway up the stairs she paused to drive home to herself that she was the Lady Clara de Vere and must behave “as sich.” The truth about her was that like so many of her countrywomen she had a remarkable faculty of seeing herself in pictures. She kept a mirror at the back of her brain. You glanced within and were able to adjust yourself to your environment. In the middle of those stairs the little hick from Cowbarn, Iowa, took a formal oath to be cool, to be collected, to watch her step, and, above all, to see that nobody called her bluff.

Everything so far was easy. There was not a soul on the stairs. But no, she was wrong. When she reached the head of them she came upon a rare old top in livery who bowed as they do in the theatre. He asked for her card. She handed it to him and he bayed out in a deep voice that went echoing all over the landing: “Miss Amethyst Du Rance.”

Mame was quite startled by the sound of her name. Somehow it didn’t seem to belong to her, any more than this ducal mansion seemed to belong to her life. She was dreaming, sure. The echoing “Miss Amethyst Du Rance” seemed to prove it. However, she decided to keep moving, just as if she were broad awake.

The landing gave on to an enormous room, whose massive double doors were thrown right back. And standing in the doorway was a tall, silver-haired dame, dressed in black and white satin, with that particular kind of fagged look which Mame had first observed in the bishop’s niece and was no doubt indigenous to the upper strata of Britain.

As soon as she saw Mame, her tired features lit up in a smile.

“How do you do, Miss Du Rance?” She spoke in a fatigued voice and held out a flabby hand. “The Duchess should be here in a few minutes. You will find some of the presents in there. It may interest you to look at them.”

“Sure,” was Mame’s answer. It was not too ready or too cordial, but rather in the dry tone that Paula Ling called _blasé_, which in Europe was always reckoned good style. Lady Clara de Vere was on in this scene, and if the skirt was to act her part her words must be few and chosen with discretion.

Lady C. de V. gave her tortoise-shell folders a shake and then passed on into the room. It was immense, and this was a happy dispensation, since it was encumbered with tables on which hundreds of presents were elaborately laid out.

Such things, however, had no particular interest for Mame. They could be seen any old day. It was the house itself and the people in it that were best worth looking at. Here was such a chance of observing the great world from the inside as might never happen again. She must learn as much as she possibly could in the short time at her disposal.

A cursory glance at the presents was all she gave. Then she wandered away through a suite of smaller rooms, all of which were unoccupied. But they were very interesting with their richly patterned carpets wonderful to the tread; glorious tapestries upon the walls, candelabra which reminded her of certain photographs she had seen of Versailles; mirrors, pictures, bric-à-brac in rare profusion. It was freely said in England that the aristocracy had been killed by the war, but from what she saw of Clanborough House there was life in the old dog yet.

However, these things did not greatly matter. The folks were what she was really wishful to see. Therefore she soon returned to the big room. After a careful survey she fixed herself in a strategic corner which partly concealed her yet also commanded a fair view of the open doors and the broad landing and staircase beyond.

In a very few minutes the first of the folks came into view. Even without the guidance of their costumes Mame would have had no difficulty in identifying them from their pictures in the papers as the bride and bridegroom. They made a young and handsome and jolly-looking pair. Any girl might have been envious; but Mame was far too busy to indulge that mean passion.

For the folks began to pour in now with a vengeance. Among the first arrivals was a bunch of Royalties. It was easy to tell these were the Real Cream, by the care with which they were herded into a distant corner of the room. Here they stood apart, surrounded by dames-in-waiting and sconce-bearers. From time to time some old grandee was brought up to speak to them. Almost the first of these was the old duchess with the Wellington nose whom Mame’s unknown friend had claimed for a godmother. She came up leaning on a black cane and was soon in deep conversation with a particularly upstanding dame whom Mame guessed by the look of her to be the Queen of England.

Democrat though Mame was proud to consider herself, she took an undemocratic interest in all that went on. The look of the Royalties and the detached way in which they bore themselves interested her enormously. But she was not able to give them undivided attention. From her point of view other important things were beginning to happen.

By now the folks were simply swarming up the stairs. There was a loud hum of voices; a mighty lot of hand-shaking; considerable laughter; and as a mob of guests began to percolate into the room and to circulate around the tables Mame was confronted with the difficult task of picking out those who were most worth while. Plutes were so thick on the ground that it called for more than her knowledge to say who were not worth while.

Suddenly her eye was caught by a braided morning coat which somehow had a remarkably familiar look. Where had she seen it? Which Prince was in that morning’s _Daily Lyre_? Why, to be sure, it was the young fellow Bill! Which Prince was Bill? A fascinating inquiry. Before it could be answered, so swiftly swirled this human vortex, the drama became immensely more complicated. For, coming in through the door, looking just as gay, just as cool, just as chic as ever, was her chance acquaintance of the Carlton who had turned out to be a fairy godmother.

Mame’s excitement mounted so oddly at the sight of this girl, whom she hardly expected to see again, that she had to restrain a shout of welcome. This dump, she reminded herself, was not the cafeteria on Second Street, Cowbarn, Iowa, but Clanborough House, Mayfair, London, England. In the words of the song the Colonel’s Lady and Judy O’Grady might be sisters under their skins, but if Miss Du Rance--the fool puss!--didn’t watch out, she would be tearing a large hole in the manners of Lady Clara de Vere.

Was the girl going to look towards her corner? Or was she not? It was no cert. The folks were still pouring in; royalties, senators, professional beauts. It was no snap. The girl, who was showing some fine teeth and chattering like a good one, seemed to have a word for them all.

These were anxious moments. It would be just too bad if Mame didn’t catch the eye of the unknown friend. The entire future might turn upon it. She must thank her for the invitation. And this time she must see that the fairy godmother did not get away without revealing who she was.

It began to seem, however, as if Mame would have to leave her nice, comfortable corner and go and chase her. Each moment the place was getting fuller; each moment more of the folks intervened between Mame and the quarry. The human tide surging around was slowly but surely carrying her the other way.

Mame did not want, all the same, to quit a post which so finely commanded the main doorway. But she must keep the unknown in the middle of her eye or she would lose her. However, Mame’s luck was in. The girl was hustled to the right of the big table, instead of to the left, as Mame had feared that she would be.

This made all the difference. She came back on her tracks. All kinds of whales were still hanging around her. But Mame could not help that. It was now or it was never. Still, the Lady Clara de Vere did not let a whoop or a coo-ee or anything in the nature of a view holloa. Preserving a ladylike calm, that would have had no success at Cowbarn, she waved her white-gloved hands and then clapped them together, one, two, three!

The girl was so engaged with her friends that the first time failed to do the trick. Repeating the performance, she clapped still louder, one, two, three! Then the fairy godmother suddenly looked Mame full in the eye. For one brief instant a kind of mild surprise shone over her and then she said quite cheerily; “It _is_ sporting of you to show up here.”

Miss Amethyst Du Rance took a strong pull of her young self. This scene belonged entire to Lady C. de Vere, a fact she must not forget. “Not at all,” was Mame’s answer. She prided herself that it was a good answer. Already she had learned that in London, England, the Cream when in doubt either said “Quite” or “Not at all.”

“Can you tell me which is King George?” Mame congratulated herself that her fool mind was functioning. And if the apt question was put in a voice that at Cowbarn would have ranked as a mere whisper, even amid the spate of conversation it was fully audible.

“Not here yet,” was the answer, casual but gay. “Shouldn’t wonder if he’s splitting a small soda with Uncle John.”

“Oh!” said Mame. So cool, so unconcerned, so chaffing was the jane about it all, that from the tone of her Mame was by no means sure that she was not a royalty herself.

“I just want to thank you right from my heart, for sending me this invite.”

“Jolly good of you to come.” Nothing could have been lighter than the girl’s tone, but in Mame’s opinion nothing could have been more pleasant.

Her next remark sent her up still higher in Mame’s esteem. “Would you like some tea?” The words as well as the tone were music.

“I’ll say yes.” Such fervour was in Mame’s reply that it seemed as if Lady Clara de Vere had missed her cue.

“Come on, then. Let us go downstairs to the buffet before the mob breaks loose.”

It was not easy to find a way through the crowd now blocking the large room. But under the accomplished guidance of the girl they were able to emerge into one of the smaller rooms. Thence they escaped through a private door concealed behind an imposing arras and so down an unsuspected staircase, which proved to be a short cut to a very pleasant region wherein was contained “the eats.”

Mame deduced from the competence of her guide that she had the run of the place. Evidently she knew her way. “Mustn’t go in there,” she indicated a room to the right, whose smartly decorated tables looked particularly enticing. “That’s reserved for the wallahs. Common you and me had better pile in here.”

The room on the left, although less exclusive, had some good points. There were tea and cakes in profusion; also a number of snug little tables at which to enjoy them. None was yet occupied and they were able to take their pick. The one they chose was just behind the entrance door, out of the way of everybody.

“Lucky to get in before the squash,” said the guide as they sat down. “Half London’ll be here soon.”

Hardly had a superb footman, in powder and knee-breeches, provided a tray containing not merely tea and cakes but also caviar sandwiches, when the prophecy was borne out. The small tables began rapidly to fill.

A couple of pigtails, smartly ribboned, whose owners were immensely voluble, soon commandeered the next table to Mame’s. Armed with pencils and cards they seemed to be in the middle of a mysterious game.

“Bags I the noo Murcan am-bass-a-door,” the first flapper, a tall and leggy sixteen who wore spectacles, could be heard to say in a high-pitched voice. “Two for his goatee. One for his horn lamps.”

“Bags I the King Maj,” excitedly proclaimed the second flapper, who was perhaps two years younger than the first.

“King Maj is barred,” said the first wielder of the pencil in a severe tone. “You know that. Besides, you haven’t seen him.”

“When he comes I bags him,” the second sports-woman maintained stoutly. “And I shall count ten.”

“It’s not according to the rules.”

“Oh, yes, as they play at Oxford college. They always count ten for the King Maj.”

Great argument ensued. It was decidedly technical; also inclined to be heated. Mame’s companion, who seemed to follow it with amusement mingled with a little good-natured scorn, gently observed: “These young modern flappers are really dreadful.” And then she proceeded to attract their attention.

It was not a judicious action.

“Hulloa, Vi!” cried the flappers. They rose as one, and like a pair of excited young colts came gambolling about Mame’s table.

For all their rather riotous volubility they had a natural attractiveness. Also there was a strong facial likeness which led Mame to think these high-spirited creatures must be sisters of her friend.

The assumption was correct.

“This is sister Marjorie,” said the girl, shooting a good-humoured finger at Miss Spectacles. “And this is sister Doris. The light and the joy of our home.”

Both flappers ceased their prattle for a moment to look shrewdly at Mame and to bow quite nicely. Then, as their elders did not seem inclined to pay them much attention, they suddenly returned to their argument.

“Vi knows the rules of the Beaver game. Vi knows everything.”

“For the love of Pete go back and eat your buns,” said the elder sister. “I never heard so much noise since Poppa fell into the canal.”

At this sally each young flapper laughed a loud and merry ha-ha. Then, giving their manes a shake, they humorously retired to the next table, where with unabated violence they still continued to discuss the rules of the Beaver game, which had proved so demoralising to British flapperdom.

“I expect you have young sisters of your own.” This to Mame by way of apology.

Mame had no sisters of her own. But she responded to the friendliness. The more she saw of this new acquaintance the more she liked her. And the family episode in which she had just been involved showed her in such a happy light that Mame’s heart warmed.

She decided to take advantage of the moment by finding out who the unknown was. Their first meeting was still in her mind. At the Carlton she had seemed to claim so much for herself that Mame’s suspicions had been aroused. But she had so amply kept the promise she had made; and now this afternoon at this big show she seemed as much top-side as ever, that, without further delay, it became imperative for the mystery to be cleared up.

Mame took inspiration from another caviar sandwich. And then she said with the amusing directness that was so characteristic:

“I just love those sisters of yours. But who are you, anyway?”

The girl produced the cigarette case Mame had already had occasion to admire and neatly detached a visiting card. Handing it across the table she denoted the name in the centre. “The Marchioness of Kidderminster.” One finger brushed it lightly. “That’s my mother.”

“Gee!” breathed Mame softly. She was a hard-shell democrat, but she was rather impressed by what looked like a famous title.

Below the name of Mommer, in the right-hand corner of the card, was a string of lesser names, yet in their way quite as intriguing: Lady Mary Treherne, Lady Alice Treherne, Lady Violet Treherne.

The white-gloved finger came slowly to rest on the last of the three. “That’s me.”

Mame took the card in her hand. She gazed at it with a slightly incredulous eye.

“Say, listen, honey!” In the thrill of the moment she quite forgot the rôle she was so determined to play: “Say, listen, honey, are _you_ one of this bunch of hicks?”

Lady Violet’s laugh paid honest tribute to this priceless Miss Du Rance. She was unique. But the new friend was not set up with herself or her own belongings.

“A long and stupid family.” Impossible not to like the frankness. “But our mother’s rather a duck.”

“I’ll say so.”

“You’ll like her when you meet her.”

Mame’s eyes glowed hopefully.

“But I fear it won’t be to-day. She’s having to sit up and purr, poor thing, among all the brass hats. Nothing below the rank of an ambassador’ll be able to get near her for the next two hours.”

“I’ll just love some time to meet the Marchioness.” Mame spoke slowly and carefully, after the manner of Mr. Falkland Vavasour. With his help she was able this time to bring the Lady C. de V. into action. “Perhaps you won’t mind giving me your private address and your telephone number.”

“I live in a small hutch of my own,” said Lady Violet. “No. 16b Half Moon Street, bath hot and cold, company’s own water. Telephone double o, nine, six, Mayfair.”

Mame carefully wrote the most salient of these details on the back of the visiting card.

“If you are staying on in London I hope you’ll look me up.”

Lady C. de V. would be de-light-ed.

“I’m always in Tuesdays four to six. Very glad to see you if you’ll come round.”

“You bet I will.”

But the face of Mame suddenly fell. For she remembered how terribly narrow was the financial margin upon which she was at that moment poised. It sprang to the tip of her tongue to ask this new and influential friend, who no doubt was in everything and had all sorts of strings to pull, if she could help her in the matter of placing her stuff. But pride restrained her. Prudence also. This was hardly a moment in which she could venture to give herself away.

XVIII

Triumph was the emotion uppermost in Miss Amethyst Du Rance when, next morning, soon after eight, she slipped into her kimono and, large sponge in hand, made her way down to the bathroom. Undoubtedly she had come off well. The present feeling of inward power was some reward for the expenditure of spirit the previous day had cost.

There was, however, a less pleasing side to the matter. And in the course of her bath it began most inconveniently to present itself. No use burking the fact: she had quite outrun the constable. Doing a swift sum in her head, she was almost horrified to find how deeply she had dipped into her purse.

Ambition was the Lorelei’s song. It piped the reason out of you. One extravagance led to another. Like swimming on a summer morning in a treacherous sea, the play of sunlight on the waves lured you on. And when at last you turned for home you found it was too late.

When Mame emerged from the bathroom her feeling of elation had gone. She felt strangely like that symbolical swimmer. Not now would she be able to get back to the shore. She had dipped so deeply these last days that even if she booked steerage she would land in New York with an empty purse. What a reckless little fool! Yet, it was life after all. From that point of view it was worth it. Certain lines of the office calendar sprang to her memory.

One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

That baby was right. The pity was that the glorious hour lasted so short a time. And when it came to paying the bill you had to take a pretty tight hold on yourself. Three weeks more at her present rate of living and she would be cleaned right out. The thought made her shiver. If she didn’t find a way in the meantime of gathering honey she would be up against big trouble. Things looked bad. Still she could last three weeks; and though in seven months she had earned hardly a dime, if she kept a stiff lip there was still hope.

She made a fair breakfast, in spite of many and growing fears; and then went to her favourite nook in the sitting room, whose embrasure caught any early sun that was around. Writing pad on knee, she proceeded to jot down in what she had christened her “best Mamese” an account of the doings at Clanborough House.

It was not a conventional account. She told in the rather hybrid style which best suited her whimsical pen of the folks who were there, of how they bore themselves, of what they wore and so on. Even while her quaint words flowed over the paper she understood the folly of it all. Who would fall for her sort of guff? Now that Elmer P. had failed her the sheet anchor was gone. There was perhaps one chance in a thousand that Paula Ling or Lady Violet might be able to plant it for her, but even to a nature as full of hope as a young choir boy’s, the odds seemed long.

All morning she wrote steadily, covering more pages than were ever likely to be read. She was pleased with her facility of expression, although it had a tendency to get gay. But persons no brighter than herself were always pulling worse junk than that on some dub of an editor.

She would have fair copies made. One she would mail to Paula Ling and tell her for the love of Mike to place it, as unless she found a bonanza she would not be able to continue going around in London society. A second copy should accompany her on Tuesday to 16b Half Moon Street; and she would beg her new friend to do what she could with it.

Somehow the second part of the programme struck Mame as a prospect. Lady Violet, in her way, was a bit of a sorceress. She had birds of all sorts feeding from the hand. If a lone child could fix it in that good and clever head how much depended on her friendship, all was not yet lost.

By luncheon time one fact shone clear. No matter what happened in the near future to Miss Amethyst Du Rance, her return to New York must be postponed indefinitely. Tinhorns like herself--to be rather painfully frank--had quite as good a chance in London as on Broadway or in the Bronx; and if the worst should happen, the final process of getting kicked around might seem less painful if applied by the boot of the alien. London was no cakewalk, New York wasn’t either; but in the light of recent experience she fancied that of the two cities London was the less likely to skin you. Even if these comic islanders knew a dud when they saw one, anything foreign seemed to inspire them with a sense of chivalry.

New York, on the other hand, did not reach out after a sense of chivalry towards the foreigner. Or towards small-town persons either. In New York you just had to pay your way or git.

Rather than surrender to the down-and-out feeling ever gaining upon her, she went in the afternoon to the pictures, to see her favourite “Mary and Doug.” Before setting out from Cowbarn into the great world she had hesitated over a profession. Vaudeville, newspapers, the movies: her choice had lain between the three. It seemed that she had chosen wrong. Instead of investing her legacy in cosmopolitan experience, which seemingly was of no particular use when it was obtained, she might have given her days and nights to dancing and singing, for which she believed herself to have something of a talent, although of course, like every talent, it needed cultivation; or still better, she might have gone to Hollywood, the Mecca of her kind, and made a first-hand study of the film.

No use, however, to consider the might have been. Her choice was made and it had turned out wrong. Every dollar of Aunt Lou’s legacy was nearly blown in. And there was precious little to show for it. But she would have to stick it now.

After the pictures, she went and did some window-gazing; and then she had a cup of tea at a Lyons café. She did not feel equal this evening to Fotheringay House. Insecurity was getting on her nerves; and those old stiffs were always trying to call her bluff in unsuspected ways. For instance, she had heard the high-pitched voice of the bishop’s niece, blaa-ing over the luncheon table that the name of Miss Du Rance did not appear to be in the _Morning Post_ list of those present at Clanborough House.

It was rather late when Mame returned to Montacute Square. Bleak was the sky and she herself was feeling like thirty cents. The wind had veered suddenly to the northeast, its favourite quarter in England now that April was there; and it had a power of making you wish that you had chosen some other spot in which to enjoy the glad spring weather.

Mame was hating life as she turned into the Square and was admitted to Fotheringay House by the little maid Janet.

“No letters for me, I guess?” The perfunctoriness had a touch of despair.

“Yes, miss. One on the ’all stand.”

Mame passed swiftly on to the table in the hall. Sure enough, a letter. Typewritten address. Postmark New York. From Paula Ling no doubt. She had not had a line from Paula since landing in England. Nice of a go-getter like Paula, with whom time was money, to mail a few lines. Not ten minutes ago, Mame had feared, so black was her mood, that Paula Ling would soon be sharing the discard with Elmer P.

Unopened she crammed the letter into her coat pocket. It would keep. There was not much time to prepare for dinner; the first gong had already sounded. Upstairs, however, in her bedroom, with the electric light turned on, she could deny herself no longer. There was time for one glance at what Paula had to say. Not that it could be anything vital. Her own last and most important letter to her friend had been mailed only four days ago; therefore they must have crossed in the post.

But even the most imaginative players, as it seems, never quite know the next turn in the game of life. No sooner had Mame torn open the letter than out fell a cheque for one hundred and fifty dollars.

XIX

Mame’s life had known its “moments.” This, however, was just the biggest it had known. Here was corn in Egypt. She examined the cheque, pressed it to her lips, and then reëxamined it in order to make sure that it was real.

There was a covering letter inside the envelope, nicely typed, from the office of the New York _Monitor_. So Paula had wangled herself a billet on the New York _Monitor_! One for her. It was a live paper. All sorts of whales wrote for the _Monitor_. Yes, Paula Wyse Ling was getting on.

The letter was dated Tuesday, 26th March. It began:

“Dear Mame, You must be wondering what has got me, or shall I say? what has got your script.”

Mame was perplexed.

“The truth is, things have been happening. I’ve lately taken up the post of assistant editor on this old-established and important journal. Still I ought to have acknowledged before now the stuff you sent me. Part of my excuse is there has been delay in sending it on from Cowbarn.”

Cowbarn!

“I left the _Independent_ six weeks ago to take up my job here.”

Mame could bear the strain no longer. She gave a hasty glance at the foot of the page. Paula Ling was not the writer of the letter. The signature was almost undecipherable, but one time and another Mame had had much practice in reading it. “Cordially, Elmer P. Dobree.”

Yes, Elmer P.! No other! Mame’s chest began to tighten rather oddly. Fancy having doubted the loyalty of the dear boob! She ought to have known that he was one of the regular fellows. A man in a million, Elmer P.

In the nicest, modestest, most friendly way, his letter went on to say how much he liked “A Little Hick in London, England,” the whimsical name she had given her weekly budget of news. Other folks liked it too. The copy already to hand was going to be printed in the _Monitor_. He hoped she wouldn’t mind if it was pulled about a bit. The _Monitor_ had so many calls on its space. But he was sure she would like to know that the chief editor’s fancy had been really tickled by the first-hand impressions and her way of putting them across. He would like her to do the big houses and the people she saw there; Buckingham Palace, if possible, the Houses of Parliament, Hurlingham, the Opera and so on, and if the series turned out as good as Elmer personally was sure it would, he felt he could promise on the _Monitor’s_ behalf that its interest in her would continue.

Mame had no thought of vaudeville now. But she executed a _pas seul_ in the confined space provided by an apology for a bedroom carpet. The letter was real, hard though it was to believe it. If, however, it had not been for that cheque for one hundred and fifty priceless dollars, she would have been forced to conclude that even Elmer P. was trying to put one over on her.

XX

The letter from New York filled Mame with new energy, fresh hope. Next day she went about the town with a changed outlook. She might not have been the same girl. A wide vista had astonishingly opened; not that she had ever doubted really that she was going to make good.

It seldom rains but it pours.

This attitude of simple faith received further justification in the course of the day. As she passed the Tube bookstall in Leicester Square a week-old copy of _High Life_ chanced to catch her eye. And there, on the very front page of that rather mean-looking periodical, was an article entitled “A Little Hick in London, England.”

She promptly recognised it as one of the two she had submitted to that journal. The discovery gave her a bit of a shock. Not so much as a word of acknowledgment had been received from Mr. Digby Judson, let alone any suggestion of payment, yet here was the stuff in the cold glamour of print.

Mame was wroth. She had also a feeling of modest elation; but at the moment anger was paramount.

At all times a believer in action, she promptly made her way down the street and got a bus that would take her to Tun Court. This business should be settled without delay.

When she had climbed the dark stairs, however, which led to the editorial offices of _High Life_, something of a shock awaited her. Instead of her knock on the door marked Inquiries being answered by the fair student of Duchess Novelettes, a voice loud and gruff bade her “Come in!”

The room’s sole occupant was a large, heavy man who exuded a powerful odour of beer and tobacco. Mame had no difficulty in sizing him up at once as a common roughneck.

“Can I see Mr. Digby Judson?” Mame had the asperity which springs from a sense of grievance.

“Mr. Who?” The roughneck blinked torpidly.

“The editor of this journal.” Mame’s asperity grew.

“Editor?” The roughneck looked like falling asleep. “Sorry to disappoint yer, missy, but I don’t think yer can.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Bloomin’ Editor’s ’opped it.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Skedaddled. Taken the petty cash. Overdrawn at the bank. Done a moonlight flit last night.”

“Oh!” said Mame sternly as light broke upon her. “You mean he’s quit.”

The torpid gentleman having reinforced his lucidity by a pull at his jug of beer, remarked pensively: “Yuss. The pawty in question ’as quit.”

Mame’s vision of being paid on the spot in honest cash for value honestly given began to recede. “Well, I want my money.” But the futility of such a demand was clear.

“Other pawties wants it too,” said the roughneck mildly. “That’s why I’m setting here.”

The light continued to broaden. “Then you must be a-a-what-do-you-call- em?” Mame was confronted suddenly by a limit to her knowledge of the British idiom.

“A bailiff.” The roughneck buried his face in the jug.

“Can you tell me how to get the bucks he owes me?” Mame had given up all hope. But there was no harm in asking the question.

The bailiff shook his large and ugly yet not ill-humoured head. “A bad egg, I fancy. The paper’s broke. Between you and me, missy”--the beery voice grew confidential--“I’ve been put in by the debenture holders. As you might say I represent a little matter of four thousand quid.”

“Sakes! Then I guess I’ll not be able to connect.”

“Clever if you do, missy, take it from me.”

Mame slowly adjusted her thinking cap. She regarded herself as the possessor of a natural business head. And in the matter of her rights she did not believe in quitting too early.

She addressed the bailiff sternly. “Who you acting for?”

“The debenture holders.”

“I don’t get you. Who are they anyways?”

The man produced a wad of greasy-looking papers from the interior of his coat. He moistened his thumb, selected a dirty card and handed it to Mame. “Them’s the solicitors.”

“Messrs. Ackerman, Barton and Profitt,” the card informed Mame.

“That’s the firm. Their office is just acrost the road in Chawncery Lane.”