Thursday was to be the day of days. But the evening of Wednesday after
a week of east winds, having settled into reasonably spring-like
weather, Mame decided to give her new hat and fox an airing. It would
take off a little of the shine; besides, she was burning to know how
she looked and felt in things that had taxed her purse to capacity.
Distinction, personality, taste, style, were the watch-words humming
in her rather excited brain as she posed before the cracked mirror in
her bedroom. This hat and fox had cost thirty-five berries in hard cold
cash. And there was nothing much to show. Yet the fox looked so nearly
like a fox for the money as it adorned her slim neck and the hat set
off her shapely little head so well, that they gave her quite a tone.
She would have to travel steerage now, but it was worth it. Thirty-five
dollars’ worth of hat and fur did give you a feeling of Class.
Lured by the fineness of the evening Mame went as far as Hyde Park.
When Bus 29 set her down at the Marble Arch the clock upon it said
twenty minutes past five. The promise of night was in the sky already.
There were few people to observe Mame’s tasteful finery as she
sauntered past the long line of empty chairs which ran the entire
length of Park Lane as far as Apsley House.
Hard by a statue whose naïveté gave Mame a jolt, she turned off to the
right and crossed the forsaken tan of Rotten Row. And in so doing her
movements, unknown to herself, attracted the notice of two policemen,
who were standing on duty in the shadow of the trees.
She took a seat, one of the many provided gratis by a paternal County
Council for the worthy citizens of London, England. No one else was
sitting around. There was excellent reason for their absence, although
Mame did not know it. But she was about to be put wise.
The path by whose edge Mame innocently sat was the most charming in
London. It ran from Piccadilly to Kensington Gore and there was a
time, not so long ago, when it was much frequented by people who knew
what was what. _Autres temps, autres mœurs._ People who knew what was
what were particularly careful now to keep the other side the park
railings. Better be splashed from head to heel by the bounding taxi or
the plebeian bus, better be jostled by a heedless mob, than to take a
chance of being run in.
The zealots of the Metropolitan Force had closed London’s most alluring
path to all people of sense, but Mame did not know that. And she was
not to blame. But just one other there was among all the millions of
Cockaigne who at that moment appeared to share her ignorance. Blame in
his case is a delicate question.
Truly a rather wonderful old bird. He was of the sort to be seen only
in cathedral cities, and then but one at a time; always providing that
some many-and-portentous-syllabled conference is not in session when
this rare bird may be seen in his battalions.
In this case he was solus. Far wiser he, had his lady wife or some
authentic church-worker accompanied him from St. James’s Vicarage,
where he had been to call upon the incumbent, to the chapter house
at Knightsbridge. His like are the natural prey of those who lurk
at dusk in the shrubberies of Hyde Park. There was something in his
shovel hat, all rosetted and beribanded, in his decent black apron, in
the neat many-buttoned gaiters which set off his comely legs that no
self-respecting London policeman could resist. He did not seem to know
that, this adventurous old boy. Or perhaps feeling himself to be like
Cæsar’s wife he was so foolhardy as not to worry.
Mame had just taken her seat under the trees which grace the Forbidden
Path. She was wondering how awfully well she must look in her new
hat and fox, how full of lugs and yet of quietness, in a word, how
exceedingly Class; she was wondering, too, how she could best develop
her personality, so that London, England, should know her for what
she was--one of the bright intellects of the U. S.--when cheu! this
perfectly amazing old lady of the village came into her ken.
He did more than come into her ken; he filled the entire range of
her vision. Fully absorbed in his recent heart-to-heart talk with
the liberal-minded friends he had left at the Vicarage, he was not
conscious that Mame was there. As for Mame, the mere contiguity of
this old john charmed her to a smile.
That smile was Mame’s undoing. Thoughts on style and personality
banished for the nonce, her eyes were fixed on the slowly receding form
of the Moderator of the Metropolitan First Church of London, England,
or its equivalent, when two policemen, young, rampant, red-haired,
sprang from the bushes. They lacked the irresponsibility of the glad
Irish peelers who lend such zip to New York. These charming fellows
happened to be Scots. But they had their way to make in the wicked
Saxon world. Here was their chance.
“Did he speak to ye?” demanded the First Cop in a hoarse, stern tone.
The sudden onset of the police brought up Mame with a round turn.
She had read that the homely London bobby was the admiration of the
civilised world. So far, she was bound to own, she liked him. He was
human and kindly, simple and bland. But to have the wind put up in this
manner by a brace of raw Scots was a bit too much. For the moment she
felt quite flustered.
“Come again.” Her drawl was rather startled. “I don’t get you.”
“Why was ye giving him the glad eye?” Thus the Second Cop. And he
seemed to add to Mame’s perplexity.
A moment’s thought was fuel for a growing indignation. Dating from
Detective Addelsee’s bad break she was going to have a down on cops of
all nationalities for the rest of her days. In spite of their air of
fanaticism, which was more than a little dangerous, this pair of boobs
was unmistakably “for it”--as the English say.
“I’m a very respectable girl.”
Both constables had a sneer for Mame’s respectability.
“Oh, run away and play,” she advised. “Run away to Mamma.”
It may have been Mame’s coolness, the growing truculence of her eyes,
the scorn of her lips, or her choice of words, but the two zealots
began sensibly to draw in their horns.
Personality, no doubt. For as soon as the owner of the new hat and fox
could bring her guns into action the Force had an attack of pause.
“Beat it. Hop it.” The grey eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare get gay with
me.”
Z 9 and Z 23 retired a few paces and conferred. A moment later they
were fading discreetly away in the twilight.
Mame was left mistress of the field. But the incident rankled. Why
could not a peaceful American citizeness enjoy the beauty of the
evening and develop her personality without being shoved around in this
way?
She heard the clocks of the neighbourhood chime six. And then, still
ruffled, she left her seat and slowly made her way across the park
towards bus Route 29. Alas! she had not gone far when she overtook
a couple of elegant tunics. They were strolling twenty yards or so
ahead, but even at this distance they were familiar.
On the inspiration of the moment she quickened her pace. Hearing a
scrunch of footsteps on the gravel path, one of the cops half turned to
look at her as she came up.
“Say, officer!” Mame’s gasp was all excitement: she would have known
that sandy-haired, sharp-nosed rube among ten thousand of his kind.
“Say, listen, officer!” An imperative hand was laid on an immaculate
sleeve. “I seena mutt without his jeans.”
The words were intended to convey an impression of rusticity which, if
anything, was overdone. Both bobbies turned as one towards her. Upon
their faces was incomprehension grave and dour.
For the credit of the Metropolitan Force, however, the Second Cop was
a young man of ripe experience. In fact, he was wearing the Zeebrugge
Medal. At the end of 1919 he had been paid off from the Navy, after a
brief but honourable career; in the spring of 1921 he had first donned
the elegant tunic with belt and whistle complete whose accomplished
wearers are the admiration of the world. There was a hiatus of sixteen
months in his record which had been filled by slinging hash in a
Chicago eating joint. Just as soon as he was able to hitch back his
mind to that glad time, and with Mame’s intonation to help him, the
process took rather less than thirty seconds, he knew where he was.
Emotion flamed suddenly in the eye of the Second Cop. He turned to the
First Cop and spoke urgent words. Both zealots squared their shoulders
and tightened their belts.
“Whaur did ye see him?” The demand of Z 9 was tense and stern.
Mame laid a finger to her lip. “Mind you don’t scare the guy.”
It was a superfluous caution. Both constables looked ready to creep
through an alderman’s thumb ring without making a sound.
Mame turned left. Her escort followed. The ground was admirably chosen.
Immediately in front was a small newspaper kiosk, now padlocked for the
night; and just beyond was that work of art, in all its naïveté, which
had lately administered a shock to Mame’s moral nature.
Her forefinger drew a bead on the guilty object. “You better take that
bo and put him in the pen.”
The boobs did not muster half a smile between them.
“Don’t be silly!” Z 9 spoke severely. “Don’t ye knaw that’s the
Ache-iles Statcher?”
“Can that!” Mame looked from one dour face to the other; her lip took
its most expressive curl. “Tell King George from me I _am_ surprised.
Ache-iles Statcher! I’ll write straight home to our Purity League.”