The morning of Wednesday saw the punctual Mame moving into that smart
apartment house 16b Half Moon Street W. In the process, alas, a hole
was made in her few remaining dollars. But she was feeling pretty
“good” and therefore a trifle reckless. The dream still held. Her luck
continued right in. Most girls in her position would have given a year
of their lives for such a chance; and she was quietly determined to
make the most of it.
Some of the money, which, in spite of her run of luck, was giving her
so much concern, was spent on lending a smarter appearance to her
luggage and personal effects. It was not that she minded her hostess
so much. She had proved herself a true democrat by cottoning to
“little Miss Chicago” as she had humorously christened her. But the
nigger in the wood-pile was Davis. Her supercilious eyes were far more
inquisitorial than those of her mistress. A suit case, of the right
Bond Street breed, and some smart new “undies” might do something to
appease the wretch. At least Miss Du Rance hoped fervently that they
would, for deep in her ambitious young heart were fear and dislike of
Davis.
However, in spite of straitened means, the new era began promisingly.
It was a relief to escape at last from the gloom and the hostility of
Fotheringay House. Mame had never liked the place and the people and
they had never liked her. She was so much “the wrong kind of American”
that those who were rapidly losing anything in the way of social status
they had ever possessed had to be on their guard. This odd Miss Du
Rance belonged to the very large class of persons they simply could not
afford to know.
With the new hostess, however, things were otherwise. Lady Violet could
afford to know anybody and everybody. All she asked of whomsoever
she knew was that they should be straight and if possible amusing.
There was no question that Miss Du Rance from the outset had greatly
amused her new friend. She had stimulated her too; such enthusiasm was
infectious. Besides, she had ideas. Not all were practicable, but they
were evidence of a modern and progressive outlook. In a word “little
Miss Chicago” was a force, she meant something. Lady Violet, who, in
the opinion of those among her many friends whose judgment was worth
the most, “was as clever as they made ’em,” had seen from the first
that they might be of use to each other.
A few days of the new régime confirmed this view. Miss Amethyst Du
Rance, called Mame for short, was a find. She was quick to learn, in
some things she was curiously humble-minded; she had a charming animal
zest in life and she was a very genuine worker. Indeed, the little
American really seemed to love work for its own sake.
From Lady Violet’s point of view, this love of work was important. Like
most Britishers, she herself had a hearty dislike of work; at the same
time no one enjoyed the fruits of it more. It was a necessary evil
which meant a life of independence. It meant a flat of one’s own, money
in one’s purse, travel, a modest entertaining of one’s friends.
The Trehernes were influential people, but of late years they had grown
poor. Since the father’s death, ten years ago, their mother had let the
London house. By living a country life she had been able to keep things
going during her son’s minority. But now that Bill was of age, it was
more than ever necessary for his mother to pare cheese. What with death
duties and the cynicism of politicians who lived by robbing the people
who were in a minority at the polls, they were hanging on by their
eyelids to the proud position they had inherited. One of the string of
girls had recently married, but it could not be said that the family
circumstances were easy.
If Lady Violet was to have the kind of life she wanted she must work
or marry. Of the two evils she chose the less. It was not that she
disliked men. She was far too sensible to draw arbitrary distinctions
between the sexes, but at heart she was celibate. And having brains
enough to maintain herself in a fitting manner, for the present, at all
events, she saw no reason for bartering the personal freedom which
meant more to her than anything else in life.
From the outset Mame proved her worth. In her own expressive phrase she
was a “go-getter”; and with a little kindly mothering she soon began to
develop her talent. All the “donkey-work” could safely be left to Mame.
She didn’t mind writing down a dozen columns a week to Lady Violet’s
fluent dictation; she didn’t mind clucking it out on a typewriter.
Then, too, she had real powers of her own. She could be trusted to
deal first-hand with all sorts of minor functions, from a new film to
a sale of lingerie, in an arresting and informative manner. She had
much of the flair of the journalist born. Celimene’s weekly letter grew
infinitely less burdensome, and in certain respects more worth while.
Lady Violet generously acknowledged all this. And even if the new
arrangement meant a slice out of her income she soon began to profit
in other and unexpected ways. Miss Du Rance had ideas. Before long she
revealed a power of turning them to commodity.
Mame had been a week under the happy and fruitful ægis of this
new friend, when a second letter arrived from New York. Moreover,
it contained a cheque. And this was welcome as flowers in May,
particularly as it was made out for double the amount of the first.
Elmer P. Dobree had also written very nicely. The stuff was full
of promise; but there was performance in it too. The editor of the
_Monitor_ was tickled to death by it and was asking for more. Of course
“the blue pencil” was still in use but Elmer P. was full of sage
advice. Even in the Cowbarn days, he had been, but he had the art of
giving it in a tactful way. Good old Elmer, what a white man he was!
Mame gave a little sigh of gratitude as she fingered the cheque and
then re-read the letter of the _Monitor’s_ new assistant editor.
When Lady Violet came out of her bath, over which she liked to spend at
least half an hour between ten a. m. and eleven, the letter was handed
to her.
“I’ve got an idea,” Mame announced when the letter had been duly
returned with her friend’s congratulations. “And I want you to come in
on it. Now listen, hon.”
“Fire away,” said Lady Violet, elegantly fixing her kimono-clad
slimness in a bergère chair.
“Suppose we shoot that weekly syndicate letter upon New York? And why
shouldn’t they broadcast it all over the U. S.? Or why not a specialty
with all the latest news and town gossip done in the Chickest style?
You see what I mean? Or we might send two letters. ‘Celimene’ for New
York and Boston and Chicago and Philadelphia and the highbrow cities;
and ‘Mame’ for the small towns. Let us mail a couple of specimens right
now to Elmer P. and put it up to him to work it his end. What do you
say?”
Enkindled by Mame’s enthusiasm, which began to rise to bubbling point,
Celimene could only yield.
“Easy money, I’ll tell the world.” Mame’s optimism was a tax upon the
gravity of her friend.
“If we can put over the he-stuff we might persuade Elmer to have it
cabled; and then I guess there’d be five hundred bucks a week for us
cool.”
“Five hundred bucks a week, honey, you don’t say!” Celimene had a sense
of humour. But she knew Mame well enough by now to appreciate that her
flow of ideas must be taken seriously.
Over a pleasant luncheon at the Ladies Imperium, of which Mame had been
already made an honourary, temporary member, they discussed the details
of the plan.
“Now then, Celimene, come to it. We’ll start in this very afternoon.
One letter for New York and one for Cowbarn, Iowa. Let us turn in that
grand new opera we saw last night at Covent Garden and the private
interview you had with that mossy-faced old dago who said he was the
composer.”
Celimene approvingly helped Mame to some early asparagus. She owned she
would never have thought of that.
“You would have, I expect,” said Mame generously. “But we must do the
thing well. We shall be up against all the regular columnists of the
New York papers. And we must go over bigger and better and brighter and
breezier. So full of natural pep must we be that Elmer’s hair’ll curl
like a crocodile’s tail.”
Go to it they did. That afternoon they worked like moles. They skimmed
the cream of all that was happening in London, England. Mame loosed her
descriptive powers, which were considerable. She guessed she knew just
how to tickle the hick towns; while Lady Violet, who understood the
taste of New York and Boston, artfully moderated the transports without
taking out the pep.
Several items of spicy gossip were cunningly mingled with the regular
news. “A little bird whispers that a certain Royal duke whose name must
not be mentioned at the moment is paying court to the only daughter
of a certain New Jersey banker. Wild horses will not force Celimene
to divulge the name of the beaut in question, but her readers can be
assured that when the hour of publication approaches they shall know a
bit sooner than anyone else.”
“A risk, I fear.” Lady Violet was threatened with an attack of
conscience. This tit-bit had gone round an exclusive dinner-table two
nights before. It was some way ahead of the newspapers; it had been
given more or less under the rose, and in Lady Violet’s opinion was
a dangerous card to play. With all her Bohemianism she had inherited
an old-fashioned respect for certain privacies and decorums. “Our
Ambassador at Washington, if he happens to see it, may ask questions.
He might want to know who Celimene is. Then there would be fuss this
side the water and a too-enterprising journalist might find her name
omitted from the next Court. And from our point of view, that would be
a pity.”
Mame agreed. At all events with the latter part of the reasoning. The
entrée was going to be one of the new firm’s assets. At the same time,
the item in question was such a sure card to lead off with, that
whatever happened she was sorely tempted to use it.
“That bit of eyewash is going to put the half-nelson on the _Monitor_.”
When excited, Miss Du Rance had a tendency to mix her metaphors.
Her experienced friend shook the head of worldly wisdom. “There is Buck
House to think of. It would be so easy to lose more than we gain.”
“We’ll gain big money. New York’ll give us a contract if we are first
with the news. And I guess you’ve the influence to live down any bit of
unpleasantness,” Mame shrewdly appended.
Lady Violet shook her head. So much did conscience trouble her, that
even Mame, in whom strong passions had been loosed, felt bound to
respect it. A real pity, all the same. Here was a scoop. The risk,
therefore, was worth taking. But now that Lady Violet was standing on a
matter of principle, Mame saw that nothing was likely to be gained by
argument.
Among other little bits of spice was one which Mame herself felt
inclined to query. Celimene laughingly suggested that the alliance
of one of Britain’s marquises and a certain celebrated Three Ply
Flannelette might be intelligently anticipated.
“Oh, but I’ll say not.”
“It is bound to happen, I assure you,” affirmed the sister of the
marquis in question.
“’Tisn’t how I read the lines in his hand. And the leaves in his
teacup. And the spots on his cards.”
Lady Violet smiled at this decisiveness. But Mame was unmoved.
“Besides,” said she, “do you suppose New York and Bawston care a hoot
which young skirt he’s going to marry?”
“I agree. And yet not altogether if I may say so. Miss C. has American
connections.”
“American connections!” Mame suspected from the first that Miss Three
Ply’s trained-to-the-minuteness had not a European origin. “Go-getting
with Poppa’s millions, is she?”
“She is always spoken of as a fresh and charming English girl, but
it wouldn’t surprise one if the rumour of her engagement to Bill
interested certain people of importance on Fifth Avenue.”
“It’d surprise me. I’d be surprised considerable.” Mame was careful to
keep these musings to herself. “If ever I hear the Voice that breathed
o’er Eden lifting off the roof of Saint Margaret’s while that pair of
galoots marches up the aisle you can call me Cissy.”
So much for Mame’s private thoughts. Wisely, however, they were careful
not to get themselves uttered in those particular words.