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.