Part 3

Was it not sheer love of a fight that had brought her to Europe? She already saw that London was going to be New York over again: a city of four-flushers, with all sorts of dud refinements and false delicacies, unknown to Cowbarn, Iowa. Of course she was a little hick. But cosmopolitan experience was going to improve her. And cuteness being her long suit, these dames had no need to rub her rusticity into her quite so good and hearty.

As Mame toyed with a cup of tea that was mere coloured water and took a chance with the last surviving piece of “spotted dog,” which had just one raisin beneath a meagre scrape of butter, her quick mind brought her right up against the facts of the case. Somehow she wasn’t in the picture. She must study how to fit herself into her surroundings. That was what she was there for; to see the world and to put herself right with it.

When in Rome you must do like the Romans, or you’ll bite granite. Paula Wyse Ling had sprung that. And Paula knew, for she had travelled. What she really meant was that Mame Durrance must unlearn most of what she had learned at Cowbarn, Iowa, if she was going to fire the East.

Cowbarn was the home of the roughneck. But in New York City and London, England, highbrows swarmed like bees. These places were the native haunts of that Culture in which Mame had omitted to take a course.

She was soon convinced this was the dullest party she had ever been at. But it didn’t prevent her mind from working. Never in her life had she been more cast down. These people made her feel like thirty cents. They spoke in hushed and solemn voices. If this was Europe it would have been wiser to stay on her native continent.

Presently the small maid bore away the teapot and the crockery. With massive dignity the mistress followed her out. The landlady’s withdrawal seemed, if it were possible, to add new chills to the gloom, and Mame having reached the point where she could stand it no longer, had just decided to make a diversion by going up to her bedroom and unpacking her trunk when a new interest was lent to the scene. A man entered the room. Mame’s first thought was that he must have a big streak of natural folly to venture alone and unprotected into this nest of sleeping cats.

Strange to say, the temerarious male was made welcome. The density of the atmosphere lessened as soon as he came in. One old tabby after another began to sit up and take notice; and Mame, while busily engaged in watching the newcomer, had a feeling of gratitude towards him for having cast by his mere presence a ray of light upon that inspissated gloom.

Certainly he was no common man. As well as Mame could tell he was as old as the tabbies to whom he made himself so agreeable. Yet he was old with a difference. His abundant hair, which was snow white, was brushed in a dandified way, and the note of gallantry was repeated in every detail of his personality. His clothes, though not strikingly smart, were worn with an air. There was style in the set of his necktie, and if his trousers might bag a little at the knees they somehow retained the cut of a good tailor. Also he wore a monocle in a way that seemed to add grace and charm to his manner and to cancel his curious pallor and his look of eld.

Mame was at once deeply interested in this new arrival. No doubt he was one of the blood-peers, of whom she had read. Down on his luck perhaps, and for all his pleasant touch of swank, he somehow suggested it. Besides it stood to reason that a real blood-peer, used to the best that was going, as this old beau plainly was, would not be spending his time in a dead-alive hole playing purry-purry puss-puss if he were not up against it.

All the same there was absolutely nothing in his manner to suggest a shortage of dough. It was so grand that it seemed to banish any vulgar question of ways and means. To judge by the way he dandled his eyeglass while he entertained the tabbies with his measured yet copious and genial talk, he might have been the King of England with his beard off.

When the clock on the chimneypiece struck seven the ladies rose in a body and withdrew to prepare for the evening meal. Their example was followed by Mame. She would have liked to stay and get into conversation with the intriguing stranger, but dinner was in half an hour and it would take some little time to unpack her trunk in which was a new one-piece dress she was going to wear. Besides there would be a chance later in the evening, no doubt, of making his acquaintance.

As it happened this pleasure had to be postponed. To Mame’s disappointment the old boy did not appear at dinner. But she did not blame him. The food was meagre and those who ate it were quite the dullest set she had ever seen. Some of the guests were accommodated with small separate tables. One of these had been provided for Miss Du Rance. It was in a draughty corner, exposed to a strong current of air between two open doors which led to a large and antiquated lift whereby the meal ascended from the basement.

Mame felt small-town, but she had come to Europe to learn. Even if the seclusion of a private table had its conveniences she would have much preferred to mingle with her fellow p.g.’s. She was social by nature. Besides, she was determined to be a mixer. All these folks had it in their power to teach her something, duds though they were. Britain must give up all its secrets to Miss Amethyst Du Rance. Judging by the dead-beats who swarmed in this fog-bound isle they might amount to nothing; at the same time one cannot know too much of one’s subject. For some little time to come the subject for Miss Du Rance was going to be London, England.

V

The next morning the fog had lifted and Mame set out for Fleet Street. By Mrs. Toogood’s advice she boarded Bus 26 which passed the end of Montacute Square; and having made a friend of the conductor, a kindly and cheerful young man, he promised to let her know when they came to Tun Court.

He was as good as his word. In about ten minutes he pulled the cord and popped his head into the bus. “Y’are, miss. Tun Court’s just opper-site.” And then as a concession to Mame’s accent, which was a long way from home: “Watch out, missy, when you cross the street.”

Mame with her recent experience of Broadway and Fifth Avenue felt she could have crossed this street on her head. It was so narrow. And although there was no lack of traffic it was moving slow with a remarkable sense of order and alignment. But Mame liked the young conductor for his briskness and his courtesy; and as she stepped off the knife-board and with the fleetness of a slender-ankled nymph she dodged between the delivery vans of the Westminster _Gazette_ and the _Morning Post_ she winged him a bright smile.

London, so far, was a city of disappointments. Tun Court added to their number. It was mean, insignificant, tumble-down, grimy. But Mame had read that Doctor Johnson or some other famous guy had either lived or died in it. The latter probably. No man would have chosen Tun Court to live in, unless he had gone off the handle, as the famous, she had also read, were more apt to do than ordinary folks.

The salient fact about Tun Court, however, had nothing to do with Doctor Johnson. It was the home of the well-known Society journal _High Life_. Mame would not have looked to find a paper of repute housed in this nest of frowsty, mildewed offices in which there was not space to swing a cat. But she did look and with such poor success that she had to open her bag and produce the address which Paula Ling had given her in order to verify it. Yes, it was O.K.: Number Nine, Tun Court, Fleet Street. Yonder, through that decaying arch, which by some means had evaded the great fire of B.C. 1666--or it may have been A.D.?--was the footpath the ancient Romans had laid along the Fleet Ditch; and the cobblestones upon which Mame stood, which no doubt had been laid by the Romans also, indubitably rejoiced in the name Tun Court, since straight before her eyes a sign was up to say so.

The puzzle was to find Number Nine. Tun Court dealt in names, not numbers. Among the names _High Life_ was not to be found. There was the registered London office of the _Quick Thinkers’ Chronicle_; also of the _Broadcasters’ Review_; also of the official organ of the Amalgamated Society of Pew Openers. These were the portents which leaped to Mame’s eye, but the one she sought did not seem to be there. At the far end of the alley, however, where the light was so bad that it was difficult to see anything, she was just able to decipher the legend, _High Life_. Top Floor. It was painted on a wall, inside a doorway.

Mame boldly attacked some dark stairs, very hollow sounding and decrepit and full of sharp turns, passing _en route_ the outer portals of the Eatanswill _Gazette_ and other influential journals. The higher rose the stairs the darker they grew. But at last patience was rewarded. _High Life_--Inquiries, met the pilgrim’s gaze at the top of the second pair of stairs; yet had that gaze not been young and keen a match would have been needed to read the inscription on the wall.

She knocked on the door and went in. A pig-tailed flapper lifted her eyes slowly from Volume 224 of the Duchess Library.

In her best Broadway manner Mame asked if the editor was in. Miss Pigtail did not appear to be impressed by the Broadway manner. She made a bluff at concealing an out-size in yawns, laid aside her novelette with an air of condescension for which Mame longed to smack her face, and said, “I’ll take in your name.”

Mame felt discouraged, but she was determined not to let the minx know it. With an air she took a card from her bag; and Miss Pigtail after one supercilious glance at it went forth to an inner room whose door was marked Private.

In about thirty seconds Miss Pigtail reappeared. “This way, please,” she said haughtily. Mame still had a desire to put one over on the young madam; but evidently she was coming to business all right.

Seated before a roll-top desk, in a stuffy room twelve feet by twelve, whose only other furniture were an almanac and a vacant chair, was the editor of _High Life_. At least Mame surmised that the gentleman who received her occupied that proud position, even if he did not quite fulfil her idea of the part. It was difficult to say just where he fell short, but somehow he did fall short. He was one of those large flabby men who are only seen without a pipe in their mouths when they are putting liquids into it. His eyes were tired, his front teeth didn’t seem to fit, and he had that air of having been born three highballs below par which some men inherit and others acquire.

The editor of _High Life_ was not a prepossessing man, although the most striking thing about him, his large moustache, was so wonderfully pointed and waxed, that Mame felt quite hypnotised by it. However, she took a pull on herself, made her best bow and elegantly presented Paula Wyse Ling’s introduction letter.

The visitor was invited to a chair. Then after brief examination of the envelope the editor made clear that he was not the person to whom it was addressed. “My name is Judson,” he said, “Digby Judson. I took over from Walter Waterson about nine months ago.”

“So long as you’re the main guy,” Mame assured him, “it’ll be all right. I want to connect up with this paper.”

With a slight frown of perplexity Mr. Digby Judson opened Miss Paula Ling’s letter. “It says nothing about experience,” he remarked mildly. “And to be quite candid I don’t know Paul M. Wing from Adam.”

“It’s a her,” said Mame matter-of-factly. “Paula Ling’s the name.”

“I beg _her_ pardon, but I don’t know her from Eve.”

Mame had a feeling that she had struck a concealed rock. “Old Man Waterson would have, anyway,” she said; and with a royal gesture she indicated her own card, now lying on the editorial blotting pad.

Digby Judson took up the card and laughed. Mame was determined not to be sensitive, she simply could not afford to be, but that laugh somehow jarred her nerves. “Cowbarn _Independent_.” He gave her a comic look from the extreme corner of a bleared eye. “Holy Jones!”

Mame’s heart sank. It was New York over again. This guy was not quite so brusque, but he had the same sneer in his manner. A sick feeling came upon her that she was up against it.

“Cowbarn _Independent_! I don’t think you’ll be able to get away with that.”

It was almost like casting an aspersion upon Mame’s parents. Natural pugnacity leaped to her eyes. In fact it was as much as she could do to prevent it from jumping off the end of her tongue. “A lot you know about it,” she yearned to say, but prudently didn’t.

The editor of _High Life_ toyed with the card and drew a mock serious sigh for which Mame could have slain him. “When did you arrive in this country, Miss Du Rance?”

“I landed Liverpool yesterday morning.”

“And may I ask what you propose to do now you’ve landed?”

For all the grim depth of her conviction that she could not afford to be thin-skinned, she resented the subtle impertinence of this catechism. Yes, it was New York over again. New York had advised her to cut out the Cowbarn and already she rather wished she had. But she had figured it out that London being a foreign city would not guess the sort of burg her home town was.

All the same her faith in herself was not shaken. It was weak to have these qualms. Mame Durrance was Mame Durrance if she hailed from Cowbarn, Iowa, and Abe Lincoln was Abe Lincoln even if he was raised in the wilds of Kentucky.

She crimsoned with mortification, but took herself vigorously in hand. “What’ll I do now I’ve landed? What do you suppose I’ll do?”

“Knock us endways, I expect.”

“That’d be too easy, I guess--with some of you.”

Mr. Digby Judson was by way of being a human washout but he liked this power of repartee. Few were the things he admired, but foremost among them was what he called “vim.” This amusing spitfire certainly had her share of that.

“You think I’m a little hick.” It is difficult to be wise when your temper breaks a string. “But I ain’t. Leastways I ain’t goin’ to be always. With European experience I’ll improve some.”

“Ye-es, I daresay.”

The dry composure of the editor’s voice caused Mame to see red. “I’m over here to pull the big stuff. An’ don’t forget it.”

Mr. Digby Judson found it hard to conceal his amusement. He gave his moustache a twirl and said patronisingly: “Well, Miss Du Rance, what can we do for you in the meantime?”

“Help me to a few dollars.”

Mr. Judson threw up his hands with an air of weary scorn. “My good girl, to seek dollars in Fleet Street is like looking for a flea in a five-acre plot. Never have they been so scarce or so many people after ’em. And pretty spry too, you know. They’ve studied the newspaper public and can give it just what it wants.”

Mame was undaunted. “A chance to see what I can do--that’s all I ask.”

“What can you do?”

“Suppose I write a bunch of articles on British social life as it strikes an on-time American.”

“Let us suppose it.” The editor had no enthusiasm.

“Will you print the guff and pay for it?”

This was in the nature of a leading question. Time was needed for Mr. Judson’s reply. “Rather depends, you know, on the sort of thing it is.” Out of deference for the feelings of his visitor he did his best to hide the laugh in his eyes. “You see what we chiefly go for is first-hand information about the aristocracy.”

Miss Du Rance was aware of that.

“Are you in a position to supply it?”

“I expect I’ll be able to supply it as well as most if I get the chance.”

“Well,” said Digby Judson, fixing Mame with a fishlike eye, “when you find yourself included in a party at a smart country house you can send along an account of the sayings and doings of your fellow guests, a description of their clothes, where they are going to spend the summer, who is in love with who and all that kind of bilge, and I’ll be very glad to consider it.”

Mame thanked Mr. Judson for his sporting offer. “I’m sure you’ll fall for my junk when you see it. There’ll be pep in it. But of course I’ll want intros to start in.”

“You have introductions, I presume?” The editor still hid his smile.

Unfortunately Miss Du Rance was rather short of introductions. But she hoped _High Life_ would be able to make good the deficiency.

_High Life_, it seemed, was not in a position to do so. But it had a suggestion to offer. Mr. Digby Judson looked through a litter of papers on his desk. Detaching one from the pile he refreshed his memory by a careful perusal. Then he said: “There is a vacancy for a housemaid, I believe, at Clanborough House, Mayfair.”

The news left Mame cold.

“We have influence with the housekeeper at Clanborough House. She is not exactly a member of our staff, but she receives a fee to keep our interests at heart. Clanborough House is still a power in the political and social world. The position of housemaid offers considerable scope for a person of intelligence such as you appear to be, Miss Du Rance.”

“I? Housemaid! Me?” The voice of Miss Du Rance went up a whole octave.

“Of course,” said the editor, “to be quite candid, you would have rather to put a crimp in your style. These great houses are decidedly conservative. But you would find opportunities, large opportunities, believe me, in such a position for obtaining the information we require.”

Mame was staggered. The rôle of hired girl, even in a mansion, had not entered her calculations. “What do you take me for?” She rebuttoned her gloves, snorting blood and fire. “Don’t you see I’m a lady?”

Mr. Digby Judson gazed fixedly at Mame, stroking his exotic moustache in the process. “There are ladies _and_ ladies. Frankly, Miss Du Rance, I can’t promise much success over that course. You see, in this country at the present time we are overstocked, even with the genuine article. We are as prolific of ladies in England as they are of rabbits in Australia. But what we want here is pep and that’s where you Americans have got the pull. It’s pep, Miss Du Rance, we are out for, and that, I take it, you are able to supply.”

Mame looked death at the editor. But she said nothing.

“If you’re wise you’ll give ladyism the go by. Better let me see if I can wangle this billet for you at Clanborough House. A rare chance, believe me, for a girl like yourself, to study our upper class from the inside. You’ll be lucky if you get another such opportunity. If you really give your mind to the job I feel sure you’ll do well.”

“No hired girling for me, I thank you,” Mame spoke in a level voice.

Mr. Digby Judson looked a trifle disappointed. “Well, think it over. But I am fully convinced of one thing.”

A down-and-out feeling upon her, Mame asked dully what the thing was.

“It’s the only terms on which you are ever likely to find yourself at Clanborough House or any other place of equal standing.”

Mame bit her lip to conceal her fury. The insult went deeper than any she had received in New York. As she bowed stiffly and turned to go she had a sudden thirst for Mr. Digby Judson’s blood.

She had reached the door, its clumsy knob was in her hand when she turned again, and said with a slow smile over-spreading a crimson face, “You’ll excuse me asking, won’t you, but do you mind telling me if it’s _very_ difficult to train canaries to roost on your moustache?”

VI

Bitterly disappointed, Mame promptly found her way back into Fleet Street. The beginning was bad and there was no disguising it. Her New York experience had prepared her for difficulties further east; but she had not reckoned to bite granite so soon or quite so hard. If she put a crimp in her style she might take a situation as a housemaid!

Moving towards the Strand she had now a feeling of hostility towards the people around her. These mossbacks who crowded the sidewalks had some conceit of themselves. But who were they? Mame asked herself that. Who were they, anyway?

Luncheon at a cheap restaurant hardly improved Mame’s temper. The “eats” seemed queer. But at any rate they appeared to stimulate the mind. In the course of the meal, with the help of a newspaper propped against the cruet, she did a lot of thinking.

To begin with, she must not look for too much success in London. As these Cockneys had it, Mame Durrance was not going to set the Thames on fire. The same applied with equal force to Miss Amethyst Du Rance. She must watch her step. Aunt Lou’s legacy had now dwindled to something under five hundred dollars. That plain fact was the writing on the wall.

Mame foresaw that her trip to Europe was not likely to prove a long one, unless by some happy chance she struck oil. But of this there was no sign. Since coming east she had met nothing but bad luck. And her reception in Tun Court that morning told her to expect no immediate change. Such being the case, she must put by half the money she still had, for a passage home across the Atlantic.

By counting every dime she might carry on in London six weeks. Within that time she hoped, of course, to find a means of adding to her slender store. But at the moment she could not say that things looked rosy. The folks here did not cotton to her, still less did she cotton to them.

After a slice of ham and a cup of coffee she ordered a piece of pumpkin pie. It was as if she had ordered the moon. The waitress had not even heard of the national delicacy.