“Damn!” said Lady Violet.
The tone of annoyance caused Mame to glance up from her typewriter,
rather apprehensively, towards her friend. Conscience makes cowards of
us all. Lady Violet was frowning over something in the morning paper.
And the long-expected blow was overdue.
“The cat’s out of the bag. How disgusting.”
Mame did not feel like innocence, but according to one of the wise guys
of the office calendar, speech is given one to conceal one’s thoughts.
What cat? Out of what bag? What was disgusting?
Monsieur Talleyrand, the name of the guy in question, would not have
disowned his pupil. Than Mame’s lisping tones, nothing could have been
simpler or more concealing.
“You remember that Royal engagement?”
“What Royal engagement?”
“The one we had so much difficulty in deciding whether it would be
cricket to divulge to New York?”
Ye-es, Mame seemed rather vaguely to remember.
“Well, the _Times_ says it has the approval and the sanction of their
Majesties.”
“Can’t think what the boy sees in her, I’m sure.” Mame spoke
cautiously. “If that really was the girl we saw the other night. Not
what I call a looker, anyway.”
“No accounting for taste,” said Lady Violet philosophically; and then
less philosophically, “but what really annoys me--”
Mame fetched a deep breath. “Shouldn’t let anything annoy you, honey,
if I were you. ’Tisn’t worth getting worried over anything, not this
time on earth.”
“Well, I _am_ annoyed. And it’s simply no use pretending. This new firm
of ours, Mame et Celimene, called Clio for short, has just missed the
biggest scoop of its young life.”
“I don’t get you.” Mame’s frown was portentous. She was doing her best,
all the same, in a quiet fashion, to adjust her agile mind to the
rather unexpected turn the conversation was taking.
“Don’t you see, my child, if we hadn’t been so frightfully
conscientious, we should have been a clear fortnight ahead of
everybody. Think what a reputation we should have made in New York on
the strength of it. If only we had kept that rumour in, and damned the
consequences of there being nothing in it, now that it is officially
confirmed we should be on velvet with every editor from New York City
to Tombstone, Texas.”
“Whose fault was that, honey?” Mame’s voice was very soft and beguiling.
“Not yours, my dear.” Lady Violet was ruefully candid. “And never
again will I be so high principled. When I am it will be time to quit
international journalism.”
“Yes, that’s where you got off.”
When Mame had time to think over the situation at her leisure, one
factor in it appeared to be sticking out a mile. The case was altered;
at least in some degree. No trouble need be looked for now, at all
events from high places; and as Lady Violet was wearing sackcloth
already for her own excess of scruple, it was quite likely that, even
when the full truth came out, Mame would have nothing to fear. Indeed,
the whole business had now begun to look much healthier. If the packet
to New York had not miscarried, certain developments of a very pleasing
kind were bound to ensue. And if she played her cards adroitly with
Lady Violet, her lapse might hope to be forgiven.
Still, at this stage, it just didn’t do to be too sure.