Chapter D: Appleton and Company (8)

Little Miss Chicago’s success was not confined to golf. After dinner there was generally music of one kind or another. Sometimes, if the day’s sport had not been too strenuous, there was dancing for the younger guests. Mame’s intelligence and lightness of foot made her an admirable pupil for several gentlemen wise in the native arts. Sometimes there were foxtrots to the strains of the victrola. In these Miss Du Rance needed no instruction. Nay, she was in a position to impart it. And there was competition to receive the same.

When the day’s stalk on the purple hills had been too fatiguing, as was sometimes the case, for even the junior sportsmen to take the floor after dinner, a piano was brought into use and comic songs were sung. Natural comedians were of the party. Bill was one. He could imitate certain music-hall stars to the life. Then there was a young chap in the Foreign Office who was so giftedly impecunious that he was seriously considering the question of exchanging a career in diplomacy which means so little in the way of lucre, for a contract with an Anglo-American syndicate to do a single on the big time. He could conjure and sing and play the fool “like old boots.” And he was so popular in consequence that he was asked to half the great houses in the kingdom.

After all was said and done, however, the biggest success in this kind was reserved for little Miss Chicago. That was the name she went by with everybody. Somehow the title seemed to fit her. Even stately Uncle John and statelier Aunt Emily, striving always for a sense of humour, that one real asset of which they had nothing to spare, alluded to her as little Miss Chicago. It was she who made the biggest hit of all.

As Lady Violet said, it was when the minx sat down to the piano that she really got away with it. Her great song, which she had heard in one of the few successful New York revues that had not yet reached London, was called “I’m the Beautest Little Cutie in the Burg of Baltimore.” And she sang it with such conviction and spirit and drollery that “the folks” seemed never to tire of listening. The music was topping and the words had a swing; while Miss Du Rance’s rendering of this gem of humour was such that, had it not been for Pop’s dollars, his reputed heiress might have turned to “the halls” as a means of livelihood.

Indeed, Mame had the conviction of that within her in the Cowbarn days. She had quite a reputation at the homely parties and sing songs of that small town. And when Elmer P. had crystallised the local feeling in the words, “Mame Durrance is a kind of natural droll,” that lady had spent a whole fortnight gravely considering whether she could not make good in vaudeville.

It was gratifying to know that the early Cowbarn success could be repeated in the highlands of Scotland. To be sure, the audience was much more easily pleased. It appeared to consider her lightest word funny. Even her way of just sitting down to the piano and picking out the notes with one finger seemed to give some of them fits.

Strange to say, however, among an audience which was so sympathetic, were one or two who seemed to be left quite cold by “The Beautest Little Cutie” and that other Broadway gem, which became only slightly less popular, “How’s Tricks?” These critics belonged, oddly enough, to Miss Du Rance’s own sex, and still more oddly, considering the great and deserved reputation for humour of the American people, they belonged, or had once belonged, at least their forebears had, to that up-and-coming nation.

For instance, there was that Miss Childwick--Gwendolen she was called. If ever there was one, that was a hard girl. She seemed to have no use at all for the clever and lively Miss Du Rance. Indeed, Mame, whose power of ear was so acute, overheard her saying to a sister compatriot, Mrs. Prance Horton, a social leader who had been recently imported from over the water, “that privately she considered that style of singing rather vulgar.” And Mrs. Prance Horton, whose home town was Boston, quite agreed with her.

It was not so much what Miss Childwick said, it was the way she said it. She was always trying to put one over on Mame, or what came to the same thing, Mame thought she was. There was a certain amount of provocation, no doubt. All the world knew it was only a question of time for the fair Gwendolen’s engagement to Bill to be announced. Why it had not yet been made public and the day fixed, even Bill’s sister, who was so informed upon every subject, was at a loss to understand.

Towards the end of the first week Miss Childwick’s attitude to “the little American”--as though she were not American herself, dear soul!--grew so marked in Mame’s sight, that she felt it would not take much for her to begin seeing red. The airs of Miss Three Ply Flannelette grew so insufferable that Mame was inclined seriously to ask herself the question whether she ought to take them lying down.

_Cet animal est très méchant. Quand on l’attaque, il se défend._ Having regard to what happened the problem arises: Was it really necessary for Miss Du Rance to defend herself in the way that she did? Opinions may differ. Yet few will deny that only a little fool would have missed such a chance.

It was after a week of highland magic that Mame felt the fierce impact of poetry and romance. Hitherto in her twenty-two years of existence precious little of those elements had come her way. But life at Dunkeldie was so different from any she had known. This was a new kingdom. And in the heart of it was the queer thing that makes some guys ramp and rage with rapture and those more worldly shrug and smile and shake their polls.

XXXIX

Things went from bad to worse between Mame and Miss Childwick. The Three Ply Lady had a clever and spiteful tongue under a proud reserve of manner, a discovery made by Miss Du Rance when quite by accident she overheard her small self being dissected by certain members of the house party.

“Violet will soon tire of her.”

Tire of whom? That was the question for Mame, as those significant words stole on her keen ears. This conversation followed an enjoyable _al fresco_ luncheon on the hillside. The guns had gone on while the ladies rested a little from the heat of the day. Mame had got her back to a shady fir which concealed her effectively and was composing herself for a siesta when she caught those words proceeding from the bole of an adjacent tree.

“She reminds me of an opossum.” It was the aristocratic voice of Mrs. Prance Horton, whose first name was Gloria. “Don’t you know, one of those queer little animals who live in the gum trees of the South. They can be taught all sorts of monkey tricks, but are never really tame. It seems to me that dear Violet is teaching this opossum all sorts of tricks, but I don’t think she’ll be amused with her long.”

“Why don’t you?” That was the voice of Miss Childwick. It sounded interested and alert.

“A little too dangerous, my dear. Besides, dear Violet soon tires of her toys. Don’t you remember the young cubist she ran and the Russian pianiste and the Carmanian princess who turned out to be a well-known impropriety? She gives all her toys their heads, for a time, then she drops them and they are never heard of again.”

“But as this girl is so rich--”

“That is the point. Is she so rich? Nobody has heard of her father. Marcella Newsum doubts whether she has any money at all.”

“Violet says--”

“--she is the richest thing that ever happened. And knowing our Violet, that may mean one thing or it may mean another. But I am none the less convinced that if this Miss Thingamy, whoever she may be, is half as cute as she looks, she’ll lose no time in feathering her little nest.”

“Well, I do think it is high time that Violet shed her.”

“I quite agree. And from what one gathers, Violet herself is beginning to think so too. She is afraid the little monkey may get up to some mischief.”

“That would not be at all surprising.” Very dry sounded the voice of Gwendolen Childwick, as she got up with her friend and moved on.

Mame stayed where she was. Grave reflections mingled now with the desire for a gentle siesta. The conversation she had overheard was wounding and it was disquieting. In the last few days a suspicion had begun to dawn upon her of a change in Lady Violet’s attitude. Her friend was not quite so cordial or so light-hearted as she had been.

Lady Violet was known to be capricious. She had proved so in the first place, by taking up on sight a nameless little American newspaper girl. And if she smelt danger, as no doubt she did, Mame Du Rance might wake one morning and find herself “in the discard.”

As Mame tramped slowly back through the heather with the other ladies towards the proud keep of Dunkeldie her mind was working with the vigour of a small dynamo. She must come down to cases. There was a Tide. By hook or by crook these women meant to down her. Moreover, they looked like doing it.

The stalkers made a day of it. Early to bed was the order. Even Bill was tired out. But the morrow was spent in the less strenuous pursuit of a few stray grouse. And after dinner the younger sportsmen being game for a hop, the whole party except one or two of the seniors, who were incorrigible bridge players, adjourned to the ballroom. The victrola was brought into use. And after Mame had danced twice with Bill, who had certainly improved since their first essay at the Orient Dance Club, she suddenly began to realise that the time was now.

For one thing it was an evening of warm splendour. The harvesters’ moon was near its zenith. When in the middle of the dance the massive windows of the ballroom were thrown open, the fair scene beyond of woodland, lake and fell looked gloriously inviting.

As Mame stood resting from her labours, with Bill by her side, and with the wary eyes of at least one other lady upon them, she sighed with a certain wistfulness. “That water with the moon on it looks good to me.”

“It is good.” In the last week or two Bill had grown rather quicker in the uptake.

“I wish I could row as well as you can.” Mame was still wistful. Bill was a “wet bob” and already he had demonstrated to Miss Du Rance the worth of his early training. “Any fool can.” Yet he must have known that any fool could not.

“Such a night as it is,” sighed Mame. “I never saw a moon that size.”

Bill, poor loon, had never seen a moon that size either.

“Just dandy how those beams strike the water.” Who was the guy in the office calendar who got away with

The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill?

Old man Burns, wasn’t it? Or was it old man Scott? Under the magic spell of the moon on the water, Mame moved a little nearer. “Say, bo,” she whispered in the tone that always amused him, yet with a little shiver of feeling in it that in the trancéd ear of Bill was something more than merely amusing, “that little rill out there _does_ look good to me.”

The mobility of Bill’s mind was still nothing remarkable, but it sufficed. “If you’ll put on a cloak or something, we might go and see if we can find that boat we had the other day.”

“That’ll be bully,” sighed Mame softly to the moon.

XL

She went and got her cloak. Bill was waiting for her below in the hall. They passed out through a side door of the Castle, across the putting green, along a little sidepath to a wicket. Just beyond the wicket was the lake. And by its marge was moored a sort of coracle.

The moon was so much their friend that they had no difficulty in finding this skiff. Getting aboard, however, was not quite such a simple business. She was but a cockleshell of a craft which had to be nicely trimmed to accommodate two. But Mame, sure-footed as a cat, instinctively disposed herself in the right spot. Bill untied the boat and took the oars and then began their odyssey.

In the centre of the lake, which although deep in places was not very wide, was a tiny isle. There was room for Miranda and Ferdinand upon it, for a few birds and a few rushes and a few trees and for not much else. But in the moonlight it shone with the pale magic of faëry. Here, sure, was the local habitation of romance. The lure of that shadow-and-tide-haunted spot was irresistible. Bill began to witch the night with oarmanship; and in five minutes or less the coracle had touched at Prospero’s enchanted island.

As they floated gently through the veil of the trees, while the water lapped musically and one startled bird rose eerily with a loud whir, Mame had the happy illusion that she was a classic heroine. This is how those romantic janes must have felt in old days when those poetic guys wrote sonnets to their eyebrows.

Plying the oars with uncommon skill this guy appeared too much of a man to be a poetry addict. He was a regular fellow of the twentieth century; a practical modern with all the latest improvements. There was nothing highfalutin about him. Yet even he, as seen by the light of that wonderful moon, had rather the air of a venturer in strange places.

“Say, listen, bo, this seems pretty good to me.” Hardly more than a whisper those half comic words, yet full of feeling, full of comradeship, full of whimsicality. Bill chuckled softly. The charming minx had expressed his own idea of the subject. Yes, it was pretty good. There was magic in the water, in the trees, in the very air and texture of this wonderful night. He had never lived such moments. This highland country with the power of the moon upon it sort of carried one beyond oneself.

What a topping little girl! So different from the others. Not that they were not good and jolly in their way. In the sight of Bill all girls were good and jolly; but some, of course, had more vim and sparkle, more originality, more zip. Yes, a good girl. The way that old moon picked out the curve of her chin and the way the blue-green water was reflected in her rather queer but alluring eyes gave one a corking feeling of living the big, glad life.

Bill’s ambition, at that moment, was to take her in his arms and kiss her. But an unwary movement must overturn them sure. He must wait until he could beach the skiff and dispose of the oars.

Coasting around they entered a small shallow cove, where the tree-laden banks came down gently to the water’s edge. This was the spot. Bill ran the boat on to a tiny strand. Yet by occult means the dark purpose in the mind of Ferdinand was already communicated to the heart of Miranda.

Just as he was about to lay aside his oars, she rose like a bird and flew ashore. It was now a case of come and find me. Heedless of her slippers she sprang up a dry grassy knoll with Bill in quick pursuit. She flitted behind a tree and then another and then another. The pursuit was hot but she was agile. Through heather and ferns she flew. As she passed from tree to tree, a moonlit wraith in her white cloak, she was like a naiad, an incarnation of elfin laughter and mirth.

Bill was a good trier, but this woodland sprite took a lot of catching. He was one of those hefty fellows whom nature had not designed for mobility. Something better, however, than mere speed was his. He was a stayer. Even if not fleet of foot he took a lot of shaking off once he had hit the trail.

She darted like a squirrel from tree to tree. But Bill the relentless was always there. Presently she would tire, but no tiring for him this side the rising of the sun. Already she was slowing down. Yard by yard he was gaining. There was only one tree between them now. There was less than a tree; there was less than half a tree.

Now, you nymph! She was as slender in his arms as a young willow. But her motions were very wild and quick. The bright red life was tingling in every electric inch of her. It was wonderful what force and liveliness she had. This was a girl. A sweet little mouth. She fought a bit, she kicked him on the shin, but it was not the sort of kick that meant anything.

Blown and tossed, yet hooting with a laughter that shocked the island’s other inhabitants, they came presently to earth on the dry bank above the pellucid water. But Ferdinand held Miranda close. Not a chance for her to slip from his arms and elude him again.

The witch seemed to have no especial desire for more feats of the kind. That strong and manly arm was far too good to have around one. And there was such a slender hope of getting free. One half-hearted attempt was the sum of all her struggles.

What was that plopping in the water? A fish? Some funny old bird? Was that a coney? What a moon it was! How weird and yet how grand it made the Castle look. To think that pile of stones had stood just so in the time of Robert the Bruce.

Had Bill read any of the romances of old man Scott?

Yes, he seemed to remember having read Robinson Crusoe. That was mainly about an island, wasn’t it? Then there was Don Quixote. Those were the only works he had read of Sir Walter Scott. Personally he always felt that real life was so much better than simply reading about it....

She had a most kissable mouth.

“Tell me, Puss, do you think you could stick me for always?”

The Simplicitas question seemed to jump so abruptly upon her that Mame was caught unawares.

It was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Sooner or later it was bound to arise. But she hadn’t expected the boob to take off quite so soon. Here he was fairly plopping into her pocket, without giving her a chance of making adequate preparation to receive him.

Even at Cowbarn, Iowa, where the roughneck abounds, Bill’s form would have been rated a trifle crude. The question had been half invited, yet certainly she would like to have had a little more in the way of notice. Still there it was. No parrying, no parleying, no evading. Excited she was, but she must pull her fool self together; she must bring her wits into play. This was a matter for now.

Never had she felt so near complete happiness. A big moment. The romance of the circumstances made her feel a wee bit delirious; the pressure of life in her veins was terrific. A spell was in the trees and the mountains; on the heather; on the keep of Dunkeldie; on the moon-haunted lake. Magic had got into her blood.

She must take a pull on herself, she must look around. This was a powerful question. There were many implications. But why bother her head about them, even if at this moment she was capable of doing so, which beyond a doubt she was not.

“Sorry to rush my fences like this.” The voice, deep and level, was very close to her ear. “But we are just made for one another. And I mean to have you.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, honey.” That was the answer she meant to give. Had she not been carried so completely away by the enchantments of that old and wicked moon, it would have been given beyond a doubt. But just now she was not able to do as she liked; that was to say, being half off your balance simply reft you of the power of doing what you didn’t like. It would go to her heart to throw away this golden chance. Empire over oneself would be needed for that. Besides, the trees of the island whispered to her, Mame Durrance, what a fool puss you’ll sure be if you do.

XLI

The best of times come to an end. And they have a trick of coming to an end abruptly. Such was Mame’s thought, when on the morning of the thirteenth day of Dunkeldie, or to be a little more precise, on the morning after the visit to Prospero’s magic island, there came a knock on her bedroom door, while she was sewing lace on a camisole. Lady Violet entered.

She was a bearer of ill tidings. “We must pack up to-morrow.”

Mame’s countenance fell. She had been cherishing a hope that her clever friend would be able to wangle at least one week more. It was the good life; everything was going swimmingly; this was the first suggestion that it was about to end so soon.

“Won’t your Aunt Emily stand for us a bit longer?” Mame was inclined to question the fates.

“It isn’t altogether that. Aunt Emily would like us to stay on, but there’s bread and butter to consider, you know.”

Ruefully Mame supposed there was. Still the firm seemed to be carrying on pretty well at Dunkeldie. And their locum tenens, one Gerty Smith, was diligent and trustworthy.

“But aren’t we rather taking chances? There’s New York to think of now. It won’t do to be too much behind with our information.”

“We’re not so behind as all that. There’s nothing much doing in London, and what there is Gerty Smith can attend to. Seems to me an extra seven days here isn’t going to matter.”

Disappointment was in Mame’s tone and there was no attempt to conceal it. She had counted on another magic week. But Celimene was adamant.

“There’s that new play on Monday at the St. James’s, also one on Tuesday at the Shaftesbury.”

“Gerty can fix those.”

“Unfortunately they are both American pieces. And New York won’t like it if we don’t give of our best.”

“Shucks!” protested Mame. “Gerty can mug up a notice as slick as we can. If you tell her just what to say beforehand--uproarious welcome, speeches before the curtain and all the rest of the dope--New York’ll never know the difference.”

“I don’t quite agree.” Celimene’s voice had grown particularly calm and quiet.

Once before and once only had Mame heard that voice. On that occasion it was the prelude to trouble. She looked shrewdly at her mentor. And what she saw gave her pause.

The gay and laughing eyes had hardened. They were still gay and laughing, but behind them was an elusive something Mame did not like. Her keen perception had noted for some days past a subtle change in the manner of Bill’s sister. The thought had already crossed Mame’s mind that those prize cats had been getting at the friend to whom she owed so much.

“Davis will give you a hand with your packing.” The tone, light and gentle as it was, sounded absolutely final. “To-morrow morning we must catch the ten o’clock from Inverauchty.”

There was nothing to be done. Short of open defiance, to which Mame was sorely tempted, and yet was wise enough not to yield, no alternative was left.

Bill was bitterly disappointed when he heard the bad news. He had taken it for granted that Mame was staying on. But in his way he was a philosopher.

“I’ll be in London about ten days from now. And then--and then we’ll roll along to Cartier’s and choose a ring.”

Mame’s eyes shone. It was the tangible evidence of her triumph and of her happiness. Yes, there was magic in the air of Dunkeldie. Life might be a long round of daily disappointment, but back of everything was always the Big Stuff, if only one had the luck and the pluck to be able to pull it.

“Have you told Violet?” She was able to ask that serious question in spite of a tumultuous heart. There was reason to suppose that he had.

“Not yet. I’ll tell my mother first, if you don’t mind. No need to set tongues wagging too soon. You can tell Vi when you like, of course; but people when they get publicly engaged look and feel such fools, don’t they?”

Mame supposed they did. And her triumph would keep. The announcement, when it came, would be rather like exploding a bomb in the new world she had entered. Gwendolen Childwick would be furious. So would the other furry ones. And Violet certainly was not going to like it.

How could she? Mame did not disguise from herself that she was worried by the thought of the friend to whom she owed so much. An uncomfortable feeling overtook her. To have caught this much-cherished bird was perilously akin to ingratitude.

Disappointing as it was to cut short the time of one’s life at Dunkeldie, out of regard for another’s caprice, London, on Mame’s return, did not seem so bad. She had found it a funny old burg and in some respects an overrated one; yet it is the sort of place to which most people don’t mind going back once in a while. There is usually something doing in London in the early fall.

To begin with, there was the question of daily bread. And Mame’s heart was really in her job. She had made good in the highlands; yet one glamorous hour, no matter how crowded and glorious, cannot undo the mental habits of a lifetime. She was now the bride-elect of a marquis, but first and foremost she remained a go-getter. It gave her a wonderful thrill to receive every morning a rather illiterate-looking letter with a Scotch postmark; but it was still her nature to be up and coming.

She liked the true London-and-New York sort of feeling of being a busy young bee; of doing the work of the hive. There was a sense of power in gathering news first-hand; of putting it in tabloid form; of sending it over the wires of divers oceans and continents. She had lived magic hours. But wise folks don’t put their trust in magic. London and the daily round were a useful antidote.

Life had suddenly grown big and rich and beautiful. All the same it was not without its peril. Mame had a keen desire to confide the great secret to her housemate and partner. Yet her courage was not equal to the task. She could not help thinking, from her friend’s perceptible change of attitude, that she must know what was in the air. Arid silence upon the subject of Bill lent colour to this theory. Once or twice, greatly daring, Mame had broached it stealthily, in the hope of finding out how the land lay. But on each occasion Lady Violet hastened to talk of something else.

The friendship, which to Mame had always been delightful, seemed to wear quite thin in the fortnight which elapsed before Bill, true to his promise, was again in London. An ever-growing coolness was discernible in his sister. Conscience may have played its part in the matter; yet there was no disguising that icicles were around. Mame was not unheedful. She could not forget the recent past; she could not forget how much she owed to a true friend. Bill was Bill; he was just lovely; but without the sanction of his family it might be difficult for their happiness to be really complete.

The young man had not been home ten hours from Scotland when he rang up Mame in Half Moon Street. She must be at the Berkeley or the Ritz, whichever she preferred, at a quarter past one; they would have a bit of lunch and then toddle round into Bond Street and choose the ring.

How good to hear that gay voice on the phone. What a rare power he had of keying one up. He was so responsive. Everything one said, the most commonplace remarks, seemed to tickle his sense of humour.

“The Ritz, a quarter after one, honey. I’ll be around.”

At twelve Mame downed tools.

“I’ve got to go out to lunch,” she announced casually. “So I guess I’ll go and doll up a bit.”

“Right-o.” Celimene was curt. She had already said that she was lunching out. For that matter she had only once lunched at the Ladies Imperium since the return from Scotland; so that the old friendly habit of the partnership of reserving a table near the window with a view of the Green Park no longer held.

Did Violet know what was in the wind? She was marvellous at reading signs. With all her casualness and her rather aristocratic viewpoint, which was such a handicap to getting money, she was just as clever as she could stick. Anyhow, she would have to be told soon. And there sure would be a dandy fuss.

Each time Mame ventured a glance at Celimene, the less she fancied the cut of her distinguished jib.

XLII

Bill looked a peach in his Guards’ tie, when at a quarter past one he was discovered among the ferns at the Ritz. Mame had no wish to be unduly set up with herself; nay she was too wise ever to be so, but there was a happy sense which informed her that she was some advertisement for the new dressmaker Gwympe. Right up to the knocker. Right up to the nines. Everything just so. Since she had gone to live at Half Moon Street she had developed taste in clothes. The neat coat frock of navy blue gabardine was the last word in style; the same applied to the dinky little hat of black velvet.

A good world, thought Mame, and Bill thought so too, as they ate a delicate but expensive luncheon. And then at their leisure they crossed the road and sauntered down a famous street as far as a famous jeweller’s, where the ring was duly chosen. Being a marquis, Bill was rather a believer in doing things well. The ring was therefore no half-and-half affair, but the last cry of fashion, wonderfully devised of small pearls and diamonds. It cost, no doubt, a pretty figure. What the exact sum was remained a secret between Bill and the jeweller; and there was no happier girl than Mame in the whole of London, when with that token glittering on her finger she and her affianced sought again the air of Bond Street.

They strolled down Piccadilly. In their glossy elegance, surmounted by faces of healthy Scottish tan, they were decidedly good to look at. Many sympathetic glances were directed upon them by the passers-by. Some people consider that taking one day with another there is a greater pressure of really good-looking people to the square yard in that gentle declivity which ends at Hyde Park Corner than in any stretch of equal length on the wide earth. The type of beauty there represented is so honest, so upstanding, so cheerfully simple yet so immaculately dressed. Bill and his young lady did no dishonour to Piccadilly north side; and had they had eyes for aught but each other they might have learned how much they were admired.

In point of fact Mame did happen to catch the eye of one little girl remarkably like herself of a few short months ago, who with her satchel containing heaven knew what secret ambitions, was on her way back to her work. She was a resolute and plucky bit of a thing, withal a little peaked and pale, a little tired and a little bored; and there was more than mere admiration in the glance which envisaged Mame, her clothes, and her escort. There was a wistful envy.

Yes, honey, thought Mame complacently, you do well to envy me. Just now I am the happiest girl in London. It all seems too good to be true. I feel sure there must be a catch in it somewhere. But the glow of feeling continued as far as the Park gates, where they turned in, and the day being wonderfully bright and mild, as it often is in England towards the middle of September, they sat on garden chairs for two solid hours at a point equi-distant between the Achilles Statue and Knightsbridge Barracks where the Pinks were now in residence.

Those two hours of prattling to Bill and of Bill prattling to her Mame never forgot. Her sense of everything seemed to grow richer and deeper. Wasn’t it Hamlet or some other wise guy who had put it over in the office calendar that heaven and earth held more things than he dreamed of? That was exactly how Mame felt now. She could hardly believe that she herself was she. Was this the little hick who a year ago had hardly been ten miles away from Cowbarn, Iowa, in all her young life? Was this the little mucker New York had laughed at? She was far too practical to believe in fairies, but she could not deny the feeling that a spell was at work.

Bill was charming to sit by and talk to. He made not the slightest pretence of being a highbrow. Out of doors was his special hobby; an easy-going sportsman was what he looked and that sure was what he was. They discussed the immediate future; wondered when and how and where they should tie the knot and so on. “I’ll nip along to the Button Club presently--the box with the windows we passed just now--and write a line to my mother. You haven’t met her yet, have you? She’s a great dear, she really is, even if she does live all the year round in Shropshire. I’ll tell her we want to get married as soon as we can. And as we are both quiet, homely sort of birds we sha’n’t want much in the way of a wedding.”

Mame was all in favour. No doubt some of the folks would want to be there. But the quieter the better. She was never one for display. And when Bill declared he would not mind how soon they were “spliced,” with this also she was in cordial agreement.

These were moments of real happiness. And yet, and yet, there was just one moment of swords. After they had sat a full two hours on the garden chairs, absorbed in the contemplation of each other and their future plans, they got up and made a move in the direction of tea. It could be purchased and consumed in an open-air enclosure thoughtfully provided by the London County Council. They were in the act of crossing the park’s central artery when Mame’s eye was caught by a gently gliding limousine. It was a wonderful dingus, the latest word, with chauffeur and footman whose liveries matched the peerless machine. Two ladies were seated inside. Both, however, appeared to be gazing ostentatiously in another direction.

“Say, look, honey. Gwendolen Childwick. Is that her Mommer?”

Bill’s answer was a rather amused but quite indifferent yes. “Mommer carries a bit of sail, I always think. Some of these Fifth Avenue queens do, they say.”

“Very rich, I suppose.” Mame had an odd fluttering of the nerves for which she couldn’t quite account.

“I forget how many millions of dollars. But something pretty tall.”

“Well, they needn’t treat us as if we were just dirt.”

“Didn’t see us.” Bill took an obvious and common-sense view of a quite trivial incident.

“No, they just didn’t,” Mame showed venom. “But I guess they’d have seen _you_ soon enough if I hadn’t been with you.”

In the particular circumstances it was not a very judicious thing to have said. But even Mdlle. L’Espinasse may nod on occasion. Not, of course, that it really mattered. Bill seemed absolutely indifferent. If one happens to be an old-established British marquis one is apt to take things as they come. Not his to reason why Gwendolen and her mamma looked pointedly in an opposite direction.

Bill calmly brushed the incident aside. But Mame lacked something of his detachment. Her gaiety grew suddenly less. That glimpse of Gwendolen seemed to cast a shadow over the rosy prospect. Why it should do so Mame did not know. What was Miss Three Ply Flannelette and all her millions of dollars to either of them now?

Still there was no denying that the cup of tea did not taste so good as Mame had expected. Perhaps it was that a faint cloud had crossed the sun of her great happiness, although so far as the September blue was concerned, hardly a puff was visible. Yet, in spite of the glory of the day, a touch of autumn began to steal upon the air.

They didn’t sit long over their tea. Mame felt in duty bound to return to the day’s rather neglected work. Bill, moreover, had a very important letter to write to his mother. But they continued to enjoy each other’s company all the way back along Rotten Row and up by Hamilton Place, where Bill, after duly making an appointment at the same highly convenient spot for the morrow, entered the Button Club to do the deed.

Mame walked slowly along to Half Moon Street. For some reason she was feeling more anxious, more excited than she cared about when she entered the flat. She shed her gloves and took off her hat. And then she went into the small room in which most of their work was done and resolutely confronted the typewriter.

Violet had not yet come in. This was fortunate. Mame felt in need of a respite in which to collect her thoughts. For the hour was at hand when the dramatic announcement must be made. Violet would have to know. And she had better know now.

There was really no reason, Mame argued with her somewhat fluttered self, why she should worry. It was not as if she had been guilty of anything dishonourable. Violet was not going to like it, of course. Beyond a doubt she had set her heart on Bill marrying Gwendolen Childwick. Still that was merely a question of Gwendolen’s dollars. Bill obviously did not want to marry mere dollars. So from that point of view it was doing him a simple kindness to save him from that fate. Dollars are not everything. Besides, as one of the johns in the office calendar had explicitly stated, In love and war all is fair. Even if Bill’s sister took it amiss, Mame felt she need not reproach herself.

Clucking away at the typewriter, she hardened her heart. The time was now. It was her duty to break the news before the world was a day older.

While she nursed this growing resolution she heard the front door open. And then came Violet’s light but decided step in the hall. A minute later when she came into the room she lacked nothing of that genial insouciance which Mame so much admired. But as Mame glanced up she was a little chilled by her eyes. The absence of real friendliness, which once had verged on affection, was now complete.

“Where have you been to, my pretty maid?” The question was humorously put. Had Violet been dying it would still have been a point of honour with her to put things humorously.

“Getting engaged to be mar-ri-ed, please m’m, she said.” The retort was quick. It was also bold. Mame was wise enough to appreciate that this particular bull would have to be taken by the horns.

Violet was startled. It was not a bit of use dissembling: she was really startled. Mame, besides, once she had begun upon the cold drawn truth was no believer in half measures. She lifted her left hand from the typewriter and flashed its new brilliancy before the astonished eyes of her questioner.

“How beautiful!” There was nothing in the gay voice to betray anxiety; all the same a slight change of colour rather gave Bill’s sister away. “My dear, you have told me nothing of this.” Mame could not help admiring her friend’s fortitude. “Tell me, who is the happy man?”

“Mean to say you can’t guess?” Each syllable expressed incredulity.

“How should one?”

Violet kept up the game pretty well, but the note of innocence was pitched just a shade high. Evidently she felt it necessary to play for time.

“Aw, shucks, honey. Cut it out.” In the stress of pure emotion Mame had a sudden relapse to the primitive manner of her fathers. “Who do you think it can be? The Prince of Wales?”

Violet’s heart was sinking, sinking, but she contrived to keep up the farce. “Not a ghost of an idea.”

“Take three guesses.”

But Violet only took one. “You don’t mean to say, you....”

All pretence was at an end. Bill’s sister spoke with a slow reproachfulness that caused Mame to feel decidedly uncomfortable. But she determined to put the best face she could on the matter. “Why not?” she laughed. “Do you blame me?”

“Blame you!” The note in the disciplined voice sounded odd. Violet’s face and tone hardened in a way that Mame found rather alarming. “What you really deserve is a thorough good beating.”

For one vital moment it looked as if this really was going to be a case of teeth and claws. But of a sudden Violet took herself strongly in hand.

Never in her life had it been so difficult for Violet to wear the mask of indifference. She would have liked to have killed this marauder. But in her heart she knew that she herself was almost wholly responsible for a tragic situation. She had been properly punished for the levity of her approach to certain conventions. How could she have been paid out better for playing the fool?

However, this was not a moment for self-castigation. She must act. The matter was so horribly serious that it hardly bore thinking about. All the tact, all the diplomacy she could muster had now to be brought into play.

A trying pause threatened to intensify the awkwardness of things. And then said Violet in a tone that would keep hardening in spite of herself: “Before you mention this to anyone, I hope you will see my mother. Will you promise that?”

Mame did not answer at once. Her instinct was to ask Bill. Perhaps Violet may have guessed as much. For she was not to be put off. She made her demand again and with an urgency quite new in Mame’s experience of her. This was a new Violet altogether.

“Please, you must promise.” The gay voice had grown coldly resolute. “Something is due to us, you know.”

There was cause to regret those words as soon as they were uttered. For their effect was to stiffen Mame’s feathers.

“We’ll leave that to him, I guess.” There was resentment in the answer.

Considerable strength of will was needed for Violet to withhold the remark that Bill was a perfect fool. But she was able to fight down the raging tempest. “I am going to telegraph for my mother to come up at once. And in the name of our friendship I ask you to keep the engagement a close secret until--until you have seen her.”

Mame was inclined to resent the tone. But lurking somewhere in her crude yet complex mind was that rather unfeminine sense, fair play. She could not quite forget, after all, how much she owed to Violet. In the circumstances she had a right to demand this of her.

“Well, honey, I’ll do what you say,” drawled Mame with light drollery. “But I can’t answer for that l’i’l bird.”

Lady Violet’s eyes sparkled rather grimly, but she managed to keep her voice under control. “No, you can’t, of course.” By a mighty effort she got back on to the plane she was determined to occupy. “But if you can persuade him to hold his tongue for a day or two you’ll be helping everybody--yourself not least of all.”

The depth of the argument was a point beyond Mame. She could not pretend to be versed in the ways of the hothouse world she was about to enter. But evidently her friend had powerful reasons. Even if she was cutting up pretty rough there would be no harm in humouring her. Nay, it would be wise. Besides, as Mame’s conscience was careful to insist, it was right to make this concession. No need to stand too much on dignity, particularly as she had a real regard for Violet and so must do nothing to embitter their relations.

“I’ll do all _I_ can anyway to keep it a secret until I’ve seen your Mommer,” said Mame generously.

XLIII

The next day, about six o’clock in the evening, Lady Violet was sitting alone with some very hard and rueful thoughts when Davis, with a face of doom, portentously announced the Marchioness of Kidderminster.

She had come up post haste from Shropshire. On the top of Violet’s urgent but cryptic telegram had arrived an amazing letter from Bill. Their mother, on the spur of the moment, had made up her mind to catch the 11:15 at Millfield, which in turn would pick up the express at Shrewsbury; and as she succeeded as a rule in doing the things upon which she set her mind, why here she was.

The greetings of mother and daughter were affectionate, but they were sorry. Both felt that a catastrophe had occurred; and it was of such magnitude that they were quite stunned by its force.

“A little American, you say, without any money?”

Lady Kidderminster quite correctly had the sense of what her daughter had said. Those, indeed, were her words. “It’s terrible,” said Lady Kidderminster piteously. From her point of view it was.

Both ladies were much inclined to blame themselves; and also to blame each other. Lady Kidderminster could not help reproaching Violet for turning loose such a dangerous creature upon a simple unprotected society. In future, perhaps, she would be more careful in her choice of friends. Violet retaliated by saying that her mother ought never to have let the summer go by without simply making Bill marry Gwendolen Childwick. Wretched boy, it was the only marriage he could make if he was to keep his head above water!

However, it was no use repining. There was no time for that. Mother and daughter were both people of resolution. And they had great common sense. Something would have to be done to stop this ruinous affair. But, they asked themselves, what? Already it had gone much too far. It would be impossible for Bill to back out now.

“Our only chance, my dear,” said Violet slowly and forcefully, “and I own it’s a very slender one, is to see what can be done with this Miss Du Rance.”

“But if she’s as horrid and as pushful as you say, she will be the last person in the world to give him up.”

“Horrid she is not.” Mame’s friend spoke judicially. “Quite a nice little thing in her way. Personally I like her very much, but as a wife for Bill she is unthinkable; particularly as she has to earn her own living.”

“All the less likely to give him up.” Lady Kidderminster was doleful indeed.

Still the only hope they had was to act as if that possibility still remained.

“It’s so slender that it seems pretty hopeless.” That was Lady Violet’s candid opinion. But they must try something. The thing was so tragic they could not possibly take it lying down.

They were discussing the catastrophe in all its painful bearings when Mame blundered into the hornets’ nest. She had been walking with Bill in the park; she was still feeling very happy if just a little anxious; and when she abruptly opened the door and came into the drawing room, her thoughts being elsewhere, it did not occur to her that she would find Lady Kidderminster seated in it.

Mame knew at a glance who she was. Bill was remarkably like his mother. This dame was quite handsome, even if her face was a bit worn. She was also stately; but as Mame immediately discovered, she was accessible, kindly, human.

She got up as soon as Mame entered. Before Mame had time to display embarrassment or shyness the good lady offered her hand. And then, as Mame was in the act of taking it, Bill’s mother gave her one quick but covert glance, which had not a trace of hostility.

Somewhere amid Mame’s infinite complexity was a longing for affection. But already she had steeled herself for a display of cattishness. However, there was nothing unkind about Bill’s mother, sharp though Mame’s instinct was to detect it. There was nothing unkind in Lady Violet either. Instinctively Mame knew that both these women must be hating her like poison and it was almost miraculous how they managed to cover up their feelings.

For five minutes or so Bill’s mother and sister talked about him, pleasantly and brightly and entertainingly. He was such a dear, dear fellow, his mother said. But he was quite irresponsible. Agreeably and rather wittily, she gave anecdotes of Bill’s childhood. She had quite a fund of these; and they were told so well, with such point and humour that Mame was really amused. The prospective daughter-in-law could not help admiring Lady Kidderminster. Her talk had much of Lady Violet’s charm, with a Victorian polish and correctness in the place of the modern slang whose abundance in the daughter old-fashioned people were apt to deplore. What the mother lacked in mordancy she made up for in kindliness and those manners of the heart which at all times are sure of their appeal.

Mame was quick to respond. She was grateful for the way in which this lady, with the most beguiling voice she had ever listened to, exercised these gifts for her benefit. This meeting might have been so awkward. Nay, it might have been downright unpleasant. But Bill’s mother carried things off in a style which Mame considered to be perfection.

For one thing Lady K. did not force the note. There was no welcoming her into the nest among her chickens. Mame was shrewdly waiting for that, because that was where this nice, good, clever dame would rather have fallen over the mat. But she was too genuine. There was a certain reserve, a certain dignity behind all that she said to Mame. Even if there was nothing constrained, still less was there anything effusive. It was the golden mean. Miss Du Rance was frankly accepted as Bill’s affianced, even if she was very far from being the particular girl his mother had chosen for him.

“But please, you will promise, will you not, to refrain from speaking of this matter to anyone until--until I have had an opportunity of discussing it fully with my son.” The careful phrases were so urgent that Mame, who did not want to give any such promise, felt the best she could do was to make it.

Lady K. thanked her gravely. “And I wonder, my dear”--it was the first time the stately dame had addressed Mame as “my dear”--“if you feel inclined to come down to Shropshire for a few days. It might interest you to see the sort of life we lead.”

Politely Mame was sure that it would.

“When can you come?”

Mame winged a glance to her partner in the newspaper world. The acceptance of the invitation chiefly depended upon the attitude of Celimene.

“No time like the present, is there?” was that attitude promptly and concisely expressed.

“But”--Mame’s quaint honesty raised a smile in both ladies--“’tisn’t fair, honey, to leave you here alone to do all the digging.”

“I can plough a lonely furrow for a week at any rate. And if I find I can’t I’ll get Gerty Smith to give me a hand. You must go back to Shropshire with my mother. We both so want to know what you think of the Towers.”

Mame was puzzled by this cordiality. But she was very keen to see Warlington Towers, that stately English home which for the future would be hers. There was nothing in the manner of mother and daughter to suggest that she would not be an immensely welcome guest.

Reassured, almost in spite of herself, by all this seeming friendliness, Mame asked when Lady Kidderminster proposed to return to her home.