Part 9

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.”