Mame’s progress to the awning was a triumph. Bobby after bobby passed
her along. Once she was fairly under it and she felt the red carpet
beneath her high-heeled shoes, of whose perils she was still aware, she
bent her mind to the serious business of being Lady Clara de Vere.
Everything seemed to make that business easy. From admiring public and
saluting cops in the street, to groom of the chambers, major domo,
butlers, footmen and what not in the mansion itself, all were careful
to see that she didn’t step out of the picture. Never in her life had
she felt so exhilarated as she walked on very slowly towards the white
marble staircase.
There was plenty of time to look at the Lawrences and the Romneys. She
was the first guest to arrive. The others, who were evidently a most
distinguished crowd, were all at the church. Except for the servants
she seemed to have the whole place to herself.
If she had not had a good nerve those jolly old hirelings might have
put one over on her. They were all male; very numerous, very starched,
very stand-off; in fact, they were reeking with Class. She had not seen
any hired men to compare with these.
The house was exactly like those fake interiors you see on the movies,
except that this one was real. It might have been a royal palace. She
had never been anywhere like it. As she walked alone and delicately up
that wonderful staircase she could hardly believe in her surroundings.
Equally hard to believe in herself. Mame Durrance must be dreaming.
In a sense she was dreaming. Halfway up the stairs she paused to drive
home to herself that she was the Lady Clara de Vere and must behave “as
sich.” The truth about her was that like so many of her countrywomen
she had a remarkable faculty of seeing herself in pictures. She kept a
mirror at the back of her brain. You glanced within and were able to
adjust yourself to your environment. In the middle of those stairs the
little hick from Cowbarn, Iowa, took a formal oath to be cool, to be
collected, to watch her step, and, above all, to see that nobody called
her bluff.
Everything so far was easy. There was not a soul on the stairs. But no,
she was wrong. When she reached the head of them she came upon a rare
old top in livery who bowed as they do in the theatre. He asked for her
card. She handed it to him and he bayed out in a deep voice that went
echoing all over the landing: “Miss Amethyst Du Rance.”
Mame was quite startled by the sound of her name. Somehow it didn’t
seem to belong to her, any more than this ducal mansion seemed to
belong to her life. She was dreaming, sure. The echoing “Miss Amethyst
Du Rance” seemed to prove it. However, she decided to keep moving, just
as if she were broad awake.
The landing gave on to an enormous room, whose massive double doors
were thrown right back. And standing in the doorway was a tall,
silver-haired dame, dressed in black and white satin, with that
particular kind of fagged look which Mame had first observed in the
bishop’s niece and was no doubt indigenous to the upper strata of
Britain.
As soon as she saw Mame, her tired features lit up in a smile.
“How do you do, Miss Du Rance?” She spoke in a fatigued voice and held
out a flabby hand. “The Duchess should be here in a few minutes. You
will find some of the presents in there. It may interest you to look at
them.”
“Sure,” was Mame’s answer. It was not too ready or too cordial, but
rather in the dry tone that Paula Ling called _blasé_, which in Europe
was always reckoned good style. Lady Clara de Vere was on in this
scene, and if the skirt was to act her part her words must be few and
chosen with discretion.
Lady C. de V. gave her tortoise-shell folders a shake and then passed
on into the room. It was immense, and this was a happy dispensation,
since it was encumbered with tables on which hundreds of presents were
elaborately laid out.
Such things, however, had no particular interest for Mame. They could
be seen any old day. It was the house itself and the people in it that
were best worth looking at. Here was such a chance of observing the
great world from the inside as might never happen again. She must
learn as much as she possibly could in the short time at her disposal.
A cursory glance at the presents was all she gave. Then she wandered
away through a suite of smaller rooms, all of which were unoccupied.
But they were very interesting with their richly patterned carpets
wonderful to the tread; glorious tapestries upon the walls, candelabra
which reminded her of certain photographs she had seen of Versailles;
mirrors, pictures, bric-à-brac in rare profusion. It was freely said in
England that the aristocracy had been killed by the war, but from what
she saw of Clanborough House there was life in the old dog yet.
However, these things did not greatly matter. The folks were what she
was really wishful to see. Therefore she soon returned to the big room.
After a careful survey she fixed herself in a strategic corner which
partly concealed her yet also commanded a fair view of the open doors
and the broad landing and staircase beyond.
In a very few minutes the first of the folks came into view. Even
without the guidance of their costumes Mame would have had no
difficulty in identifying them from their pictures in the papers as the
bride and bridegroom. They made a young and handsome and jolly-looking
pair. Any girl might have been envious; but Mame was far too busy to
indulge that mean passion.
For the folks began to pour in now with a vengeance. Among the
first arrivals was a bunch of Royalties. It was easy to tell these
were the Real Cream, by the care with which they were herded into
a distant corner of the room. Here they stood apart, surrounded by
dames-in-waiting and sconce-bearers. From time to time some old grandee
was brought up to speak to them. Almost the first of these was the old
duchess with the Wellington nose whom Mame’s unknown friend had claimed
for a godmother. She came up leaning on a black cane and was soon in
deep conversation with a particularly upstanding dame whom Mame guessed
by the look of her to be the Queen of England.
Democrat though Mame was proud to consider herself, she took an
undemocratic interest in all that went on. The look of the Royalties
and the detached way in which they bore themselves interested her
enormously. But she was not able to give them undivided attention. From
her point of view other important things were beginning to happen.
By now the folks were simply swarming up the stairs. There was a loud
hum of voices; a mighty lot of hand-shaking; considerable laughter; and
as a mob of guests began to percolate into the room and to circulate
around the tables Mame was confronted with the difficult task of
picking out those who were most worth while. Plutes were so thick on
the ground that it called for more than her knowledge to say who were
not worth while.
Suddenly her eye was caught by a braided morning coat which somehow
had a remarkably familiar look. Where had she seen it? Which Prince
was in that morning’s _Daily Lyre_? Why, to be sure, it was the young
fellow Bill! Which Prince was Bill? A fascinating inquiry. Before it
could be answered, so swiftly swirled this human vortex, the drama
became immensely more complicated. For, coming in through the door,
looking just as gay, just as cool, just as chic as ever, was her chance
acquaintance of the Carlton who had turned out to be a fairy godmother.
Mame’s excitement mounted so oddly at the sight of this girl, whom
she hardly expected to see again, that she had to restrain a shout of
welcome. This dump, she reminded herself, was not the cafeteria on
Second Street, Cowbarn, Iowa, but Clanborough House, Mayfair, London,
England. In the words of the song the Colonel’s Lady and Judy O’Grady
might be sisters under their skins, but if Miss Du Rance--the fool
puss!--didn’t watch out, she would be tearing a large hole in the
manners of Lady Clara de Vere.
Was the girl going to look towards her corner? Or was she not? It
was no cert. The folks were still pouring in; royalties, senators,
professional beauts. It was no snap. The girl, who was showing some
fine teeth and chattering like a good one, seemed to have a word for
them all.
These were anxious moments. It would be just too bad if Mame didn’t
catch the eye of the unknown friend. The entire future might turn upon
it. She must thank her for the invitation. And this time she must see
that the fairy godmother did not get away without revealing who she was.
It began to seem, however, as if Mame would have to leave her nice,
comfortable corner and go and chase her. Each moment the place was
getting fuller; each moment more of the folks intervened between Mame
and the quarry. The human tide surging around was slowly but surely
carrying her the other way.
Mame did not want, all the same, to quit a post which so finely
commanded the main doorway. But she must keep the unknown in the middle
of her eye or she would lose her. However, Mame’s luck was in. The girl
was hustled to the right of the big table, instead of to the left, as
Mame had feared that she would be.
This made all the difference. She came back on her tracks. All kinds
of whales were still hanging around her. But Mame could not help that.
It was now or it was never. Still, the Lady Clara de Vere did not
let a whoop or a coo-ee or anything in the nature of a view holloa.
Preserving a ladylike calm, that would have had no success at Cowbarn,
she waved her white-gloved hands and then clapped them together, one,
two, three!
The girl was so engaged with her friends that the first time failed
to do the trick. Repeating the performance, she clapped still louder,
one, two, three! Then the fairy godmother suddenly looked Mame full in
the eye. For one brief instant a kind of mild surprise shone over her
and then she said quite cheerily; “It _is_ sporting of you to show up
here.”
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.