These were great days. It was not long before social engagements began
to pour in upon Mame. She had surmised rightly that Lady Violet had
influence. Indeed this new and most valuable friend seemed to have a
finger in every pie. Her power of “wangling” things was extraordinary.
There could be no doubt about her popularity. And it was not confined
to one class. The charlady at the flat, the young man who delivered
the milk, the stalwart ex-soldier who worked the lift, right up to the
formidable Davis and the princes of the earth were one and all devoted
to her. For one thing she was the soul of good humour, with a word and
a smile for everybody; and she had a divine faculty of loving a kind
action for its own sake.
Lady Violet was a general favourite and she had many strings to
pull. As far as Mame was concerned she pulled them freely. Little
Miss Chicago began to be invited here, there, and everywhere. And
surprisingly few questions were asked. At the outset, it is true,
certain nicely brushed and plucked eyebrows--mostly those of Miss Du
Rance’s own countrywomen, who seemed to abound in Mayfair--were apt to
go up at finding her sitting opposite them at dinner and at luncheon.
But the fact that she was a protégée of Lady Violet’s seemed to
accredit her, to account for her, as it were.
Mrs. Creber Newsum, quite frankly, had never heard the name Du
Rance all the time she had lived in America. Lady Summerscale, née
Vanderdecken, who owned to Chicago connections, had never heard of it
either. As for the dear Duchess, whose great grandmother had taken out
the original patent for the New York Four Hundred, she was sure, my
dear, well she was quite, quite sure--!
Still, Mame had luck to begin with. And she had excellent brains. Above
all she had a very judicious and clever sponsor. Lady Violet understood
just how far she could go with her own particular world. She knew its
little weaknesses and how to play upon them.
In launching, as much perhaps for her private amusement as for any
other reason, “my friend Miss Du Rance of Chicago,” into this expensive
hothouse, she contrived to let it be known in her own two-edged phrase
that this little American “was the richest thing that ever happened.”
Certain people, to whom money was the beginning and the end of all
things, were only too eager to accept the phrase at its face value.
They took it quite literally. Somehow it so fully explained Miss Du
Rance.
“Chicago, my dear.” One lynx-eyed old dowager would whisper to another
who had the ears of a fox. “Poppa was hogs. One hears the money he
made in the War was fabulous.”
That accounted for Miss Du Rance. Five years had passed since the
Armistice, but the Hogs, all frozen and pickled, that Britons of every
rank and class had been compelled to digest and the prices they had had
to pay for the privilege during the years of famine had crystallised
already into one of the permanent traditions of the race.
Seeing is believing. The same applies to eating. “Hogs, my dear. Poppa
was hogs.” It seemed to follow, as night follows day, that little
Miss Chicago simply could not help being the richest thing that ever
happened. And it was wonderful how the rumour spread. Sophisticated
souls looked upon Miss Du Rance with awe.
Mame, at first, was not aware of this interesting fact. Even she, cute
as she was, did not immediately strike to the root of Lady Violet’s
subtlety. That little event was to come later. But even while Mame
dwelt in a state of innocence, her uncanny sharpness gave her a
perception of the rôle to play.
As far as Mayfair was concerned Miss Du Rance was the only one of her
kind. She was something new. And the society in which she began to
move had a love of novelty. Behind little Miss Chicago, however, was
something more substantial than mere novelty. So cunningly did Lady
Violet handle the rumour of her dollars that it seemed not only to
vindicate Miss Du Rance, it also served to explain her. Great wealth
was needed to carry off such naïveté. Did not the one connote the
other? Unless in a literal sense she was the richest thing that ever
happened she could never have penetrated so far into the arcana of
London’s exclusiveness. And without a colossal fortune how could she
afford to be the child of nature that she was?
It was whispered that Pop had begun the War a simple farmer of hogs
and had ended by cornering them. The rapidity of his rise into one of
the great magnates of the Middle West explained his early decease.
It also explained his daughter. Dear Violet was receiving a pretty
penny for towing her round, it was said. Everybody, of her own sex,
envied and admired the courage of that lady. But the more sporting
members were laying rather long odds that her protégée would not be
presented at any one of the Season’s drawing rooms; while the most
speculatively inclined were ready to lay rather shorter odds that _la
belle Américaine_ would not even be seen at one of the minor Buck House
garden parties.
Beyond a hint from Lady Violet, at the beginning of this odyssey in her
young life, Mame had nothing to go on; but it was wonderful how soon
she saw what was expected of her. There was, her sponsor had laughingly
said, a far better chance of Miss Du Rance of Chicago receiving a
ticket for the Royal Enclosure at Ascot from the Lord Chamberlain if
she “stood,” as it were, upon Pop’s mythical wealth, than if she took
the humbler rôle of weekly correspondent of the New York _Monitor_.
Nay, to be frank, and Lady Violet generally was in her arch way,
journalism cut no ice in the circles in which Mame was ambitious to
move. Those circles were rippling with inside information; the value of
the entrée, journalistically speaking, could hardly be exaggerated; but
Mame should remember that the key was wrought of dollars rather than of
sensitive grey matter.
A nod is as good as a wink sometimes. Mame promptly took the hint.
She was beginning to set her heart on big things. These ambitions
would mean a considerable increase of expenditure, because even the
appearance of money cannot altogether be counterfeited. But every
nickel spent now would be a means to a definite end. Yet there were
anxious moments to begin with; and it was well that she had a solid
rock upon which to lean.
Financially Mame’s burdens had been much lightened by the generosity of
her friend. She had no house-room to pay for; Cousin Edith’s vacant bed
was at her disposal gratis. Then, too, she was very well paid for her
labours upon the weekly syndicate letter.
Quite at the outset of what by all the omens should have been a smooth
and prosperous voyage there came a threat of shipwreck. It so happened
that when the specimen letter to New York, which finally they decided
to sign with the nom de plume Clio, had been carefully pondered and
copied and sealed ready for dispatch, Mame suddenly went back on her
too hasty decision to let Lady Violet have things all her own way. In
deference to her scruples the most valuable of their assets had been
scrapped; the rumour of a Royal duke’s engagement to one of America’s
queens had been cut out.
At the last moment, however, such a piece of quixotism was a little too
much for Mame’s news sense. She realised the enormous value of this
item. They were playing for a high stake and yet they were deliberately
throwing away the ace of trumps. Surely it was worth taking a risk.
Principles are good things, no doubt, but in up-to-date press work they
can be overdone.
Lady Violet, as it chanced, was in a hurry to dress for the play and an
early dinner in the entourage of a newspaper magnate; and Mame, who had
no engagement of her own that evening, undertook personally to register
the parcel, so that there should be no mistake about its getting to New
York.
Alone with the parcel, alas, the devil tempted her. Why, oh why, throw
away such a chance as might never recur! She turned to the wastepaper
basket, fished out the discarded item and re-read it wistfully. Beyond
a doubt it was the very bit of sugar they most wanted. As she scanned
her native skies there was not an editor in New York who would not
fall for that piece of news. Hardening her heart, she sat down at the
typewriter, made a fair copy of the crumpled script, and then, breaking
the sealed packet, she inserted the forbidden “par” and sealed it again.
Even in the midst of the rash act, conscience threatened Mame with
whips and scorpions to follow. But, after all, it was an equal
partnership; she knew better than her friend what the effect would be
in New York. Besides, why make a mountain out of a molehill? Even if
there was a shine over this spicy par, they would no doubt be able
to survive it. In any case there was likely to be very substantial
compensation. For in Mame’s view that tit-bit would clinch the matter.
It had a real chance of putting them in solid with the most worth-while
newspapers in America. They would be able to get a fine contract for
their weekly cable and then could snap their fingers at all the moguls
between Washington and Windsor.
Once the fell deed was done, however, and the parcel dispatched from
the post office in Dover Street, Mame’s conscience got busy. It came
down upon her like a ton of bricks. She had done a thing that even
complete success would not justify; she had gone back on her word;
she had been disloyal; she had proved that she was simply not to
be trusted. And if the game went wrong, and Lady Violet had shown
conclusively that it was a highly dangerous one to play, most likely
the too-clever Miss Du Rance would get it where the chicken got the axe.
Mame was not in the habit of repenting her actions. Long ago she had
steeled her will against a pernicious harbouring of regrets; but she
had some pretty bad moments to pass through. Retribution visited her
pillow nightly.
Never in her life had she been lacking in courage, moral or physical.
But now came signs of a yellow streak. She dare not tell Lady Violet
what she had done. With all her genuine kindness, her gay insouciance,
Mame was yet sure that she was not a kind of girl who could be trifled
with. And look at the matter in what light one would, this trick was
not quite on the level.
“Serve me right if I’m fired,” was Mame’s constant thought. “I ought
to have put myself in solid before I tried these fancy strokes. And it
isn’t Class, anyway.”
However, there it was. Even if a greedy little puss in her haste to
get at the cream had upset the jug altogether, it was no use miaouing.
All the same it took some of the warmth out of the sunshine of the
Green Park; the band of the Pinks did not seem to play ragtime quite
so rhythmically; the excitements of the new orientation were less
stimulating than they should have been; the hope of an invitation to
the Royal garden party less exhilarating; the world hardly so full of
colour and romance as the circumstances warranted.
Had it not been for this large fly in the ointment, the new life would
have been a thing of joy. The times were stirring. Luncheons, matinées,
dinners, dances, parties crowded one another. Lady Violet, indeed, had
influence. On each occasion, it is true, Mame had more or less to run
the gauntlet, but she had the spirit of a fighter and she bore herself
right gallantly.
Each week she got prettier; each week her confidence grew. Like all
the rest of her countrywomen, of whatever grade they belonged, she had
a very keen social sense. In a time surprisingly short, as viewed by
the more conservative and less daring Briton, she began to get the hang
of things. With just a little help, she soon learned what could be worn
and what could not, what could be said and what could not, what could
be done and what could not.
It was a pity that she had already done one of the things she ought not
to have done. Otherwise everything in the garden would have been just
lovely.
Even as it was the garden was real nice. She promised to become a
favourite at some of the smart houses within a stone’s throw of her
present abode. At the Orient Dance Club, in particular, she was _un
succès fou_. Her style of moving was admired, her sayings were quoted;
her personality, which seemed to develop and make more impact each time
she appeared, began to wax in the public eye.
She was no longer the small-town rustic. Nor was she the struggling New
York journalist who had to gaze wistfully at both sides of a dollar.
The rôle of Miss Du Rance of Chicago suited her infinitely better. Even
Miss Childwick, by nature a trifle supercilious, poor dear, had to
defer to her in certain ways. Miss Du Rance was so much quicker in the
uptake, so much more forceful, altogether so much cleverer. A slightly
strained look began to appear in the eyes of Miss Three Ply Flannelette
whenever her name was mentioned.
All the same, as Mame foresaw, the pace was a bit too hot to last.
Something was due to happen. She was rather a fatalist by nature; and
having gone out of her way to find trouble, she fully expected to fetch
up pretty soon against a round nugget.
Why had she not let well alone! The truth was bound, sooner or later,
to come out. Every time Davis, who had the look of a baby-eating
ogress, came into the room with letters on a silver tray, Mame had a
presentiment that some old Court fool of an ambassador had written to
complain. And when that happened, as conscience said it sure must, Lady
Violet being the kind of girl she was, there would be ructions.
To make things worse, although nearly four weeks had flown since
“Clio’s” specimen copy had been urgently posted to New York, no word
had yet been received on the subject. What did Elmer P. think of that
_ballon d’essai_? as Lady Violet called it. What a fool Miss Slick Puss
would look if, even with a bit of illicit spice stuck in the middle of
her cake, Clio was turned down after all!