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.