The next morning, when Mame drew up her blind, there was abundant
promise of royal weather. The great day was ushered in by one of those
light mists which mask a sky of flawless blue. In London, England,
this phenomenon is rarely seen before noon. But when it does appear
the whole of that world which lies between the White Stone Pond at
Hampstead and Sydenham Hill, with its weird crown, the Crystal Palace,
may be said to raise a pæan.
This morning as Mame dealt faithfully with her matutinal kipper and
coffee and marmalade, she felt inclined to raise a pæan also. She had
slept well in spite of a growing pressure of deep anxieties. Never had
she felt more full of zip. To-day was to offer the chance of her life.
The firmness of the barometer and the optimism of the _Daily Mail_ so
fully confirmed the prospect from her bedroom window, that a second
consecutive day of fine weather was almost a certainty. She would
be able to do the function of the afternoon under the best possible
conditions.
For nearly a fortnight the wedding had been sedulously boomed by
the newspapers. Mame was willing to take their word for it that the
celebration of the nuptials of the Marquis of Belfield and Miss Van
Alsten of New York was one of the events of the social year. Also she
was ready to accept their prediction of an immense gathering at the
Church of Saint Margaret, Westminster, and around the railings of
Clanborough House, Mayfair.
She decided to forego the ceremony and to concentrate on the reception.
By this means she would save the expense of a taxi; and perhaps of
fighting her way through the mob. New York had taught her what that
meant at a really smart wedding. Besides, having had such luck, she
was sure of seeing the second part of the show at close range. If she
got to Clanborough House early, she would be able to choose a good
position. She wanted to rub shoulders with Royalty and the grandees.
It was not so much she was a little snob, although she dared say that
really and truly she was, as that she was out to hear and to see, to
mark and to learn.
She didn’t take much luncheon. A sort of excitement had been gnawing
at her all the morning, and the nearer the time approached to set out
for Mayfair, the worse it became. She would have despised herself for
lack of coolness had she been equal just then to despising herself for
anything. What was there to fuss over? Had it been her fool self that
was going to marry the Marquis of Belfield she could not have felt more
completely cuckoo.
“Pull your doggone self together, Mame Durrance,” something whispered
to her as she shook a little Worcester sauce over the mid-day hash.
Sound advice, but not easy to follow. Even when she put down the bottle
of Worcester sauce her hand continued to shake. Yes, she was cuckoo.
A highbrow had declared in the office calendar for 1921 that he was
the captain of his soul. His exact words should have been easy to
remember, for they had been learned sedulously by heart; but the poor
old think-box seemed out of business just now. And that was a pity, for
that highbrow might have been helpful.
Lack of appetite seemed to add to a feeling of “nerves.” It was
absurd. Her job would not be a whit more difficult than a visit to the
movies or the play. But she was in a regular twitter. Luncheon hardly
touched, she got up from the table and went to her room. The business
of dressing took a full hour. Never in her life had she taken such
pains with her appearance. She arched her eyebrows with a pencil, she
dabbed her face with cream and rose and she artfully brushed her hair,
a pretty burnished brown, over what she considered her weakest feature,
a pair of slightly nondescript ears.
At last she stood in her camisole to receive her best afternoon frock
of blue marocain. Then she slipped about her slender neck a string of
pearls even slenderer, whose make-believe, she hoped, would not be
visible to the naked eye. Silk stockings, very choice and gossamer, and
a cunning pair of shoes with high heels and large buckles completed the
picture.
As she gazed at herself in the wretched lodging-house mirror, she
wondered why she was taking these pains. Not a soul in the smart mob
was likely to glance at her twice. But she looked so pale that she
could not tear herself away from the glass without one extra touch
of rose. That accomplished, she had recourse to a neat oblong box,
which since yesterday morning had graced the top of the chest of
drawers. With a little nervous, thrill she produced a pair of folding
eyeglasses, the cutest thing out, which with the help of a long
tortoise-shell handle you held up to your nose.
The only drawback to this slick contrivance was that for seeing
purposes she simply did not need it. Her eyes were like a goshawk’s.
The problem was to hold the tortoise-shell folders so as to peer over
the top without detracting from their effect.
Conscious that she was a veritable Paula Wyse Ling in action, she
moved slowly forth from her room and down the stairs. The tightness of
the new shoes required caution. It was a mistake to have them fit so
close; a pity, too, that the heels were so horribly high. She had to
be careful also with the tortoise-shell folders. If they were not kept
at just the right angle going down those dark stairs she might miss a
step, pitch down the lot and fetch up with a crash against the drawing
room door.
Fashionable life is not all chocolate éclairs and ice-cream sodas. Mame
nearly tripped over herself twice in the course of the perilous descent
to the first-floor landing. She had just achieved it with a thankful
heart, when the door of the drawing room opened, and lo! who should
emerge like some old cat from a wicker basket but the queen of the
tabbies, the bishop’s niece.
No love was lost between Mame and this lady. She was a species of
four-flusher, Mame was sure. Very set up with herself, yet without so
much as one shilling to rub against another. To judge by the novels
Mame had been reading, to get to know as it were the lie of this comic
land, she was convinced that in the cathedral towns and the inland spas
the nieces of bishops were three a penny.
She had dignity of a sort, this dame, but when she came full upon Mame,
who seemed at the point of falling on to her tortoise-shell folders,
she almost let a whoop.
Howbeit, the fact that she was a bishop’s niece had the power to save
her. Suddenly she gazed over Mame’s head and then muttered how glad she
was that it was such a fine day. But Mame, in spite of tight shoes and
a general _malaise_, felt the cold and stern joy of battle.
By a discreet use of the tortoise-shell folders she was able to peer
not so much through the middle as over the top. Then she lifted her
good chin, which she knew to be one hundred per cent American, and said
in that clear high voice which she had practised in secret from the
hour she had first heard poor Mr. Falkland Vavasour put it over, “I’ll
give your mother-love to King George.”