It was rather late in the afternoon when Mame returned to Half Moon
Street. She had powlered up and down a bit, had had a cup of tea at the
Stores, and had given some time to examining various novelties with an
eye to Celimene’s weekly letter. But she was still feeling decidedly
miserable.
Lady Violet was out. She generally was at this hour of the day. Mame
took off her hat and then sat doggedly down at the typewriter. There
was plenty of work to be done; and she decided to go on doing it just
as if nothing had happened.
It was not easy, however, to fix her mind on her job. Something had
told her that she was going to be “fired”; and probably quite soon. She
was really more occupied with what could be saved from the wreck than
with the task in hand. But however she looked at the matter, there was
no escaping the fact that it was in Lady Violet’s power to ruin her
socially.
Unless!
It was also in Lady Violet’s power to ruin her professionally, unless
Elmer P. was willing to forgive her for making him look a fool. In
any case she would have earned the reputation of being a regular
fly-up-the-creek; and she knew enough of her calling by this time to
be aware that such a name was about the worst possible for a newspaper
girl.
While Mame was wrestling with these unhappy thoughts Lady Violet came
into the room. She hardly ventured to look at the face of her friend.
Somehow she was afraid to read her doom, which in her present mood was
going to be more than she could bear.
Lady Violet gazed upon the rather woe-begone little figure seated
before a piece of mechanism which she herself profoundly disliked.
“Hard at it!” The tone was cheery, but it was non-committal. It was
impossible for Mame to tell what her feelings were or what the decision
was to which she had come.
Mame had very little hope. But, although she was careful not to betray
it, she had a certain amount of defiance. As she bent over the machine
she felt the eyes of Lady Violet upon her. After all, why should this
girl sit in judgment? So far she had only had to play at life. She had
never had to wonder where the next crust was coming from; she had never
had to drudge at things she hated; she had never really known what it
was to be tempted. Boredom, squalor, misery, what did this high-flyer
know of these?
Mame was feeling sore. And there was a kind of savage pride in her,
which forbade the showing of her heart. She would ask no concession.
How could she, without lowering herself in her own eyes? If the
sentence was ruin she would accept it. She must find the strength to
pack her traps and walk out of that alluring house just as if nothing
had happened.
All the same these thoughts hurt so much that her eyes began to fill
with tears. They were the first which had gathered there since the
weary days of childhood that now seemed very far away. Suddenly quite a
large one dripped on to the machine. Mame fiercely brushed it off with
her handkerchief. But it was too late. The mischief was done.
There was a pause. It was rather strained and rather odd. And then
she woke to the fact that Lady Violet was speaking. Moreover, she was
speaking in the gay and whimsical voice that Mame had grown to love.
“Little Puss, I’ve been thinking about things. I’m more to blame than
you. One had no right to tempt you like that.”
This aspect of the case had not occurred to Mame. It was a generous
interpretation of the matter; it was, also, a diplomatic one which
skilfully opened a short way out.
“No, you just hadn’t,” said Mame. “But don’t think I excuse myself. I
expect,” she added wistfully, “you’ll never be able to trust me again.”
That was precisely the thought which was now troubling Lady Violet. But
she had not the heart to be really hard. There was something brave and
big about the child; a gameness, a never-say-die-ness which appealed to
one’s sporting instincts. She was immensely worth helping. But to go
into partnership with her?--that was a thorny question. One had to be
able to trust blindly in such a case.
“No, I’ll say not.” Mame read her thoughts. “And after this I have a
kind of hunch that I can’t trust myself.”
Lady Violet looked shrewdly at Mame. She recognised, at any rate, her
own weakness, and to that extent there was hope for her. Besides,
the particular circumstances need not arise a second time. The next
“bonanza” that came along, if she had the least doubt about giving
it publicity, let her have the good sense to keep to herself. It was
hardly fair to put temptation in the way of one whose genius for news
made her so susceptible.
Reflection convinced Lady Violet that this was a case for broad views.
A woman who really knows the world does not ask too much of human
nature. To be forewarned is to be forearmed. And the childish air of
penitence was so appealing that Lady Violet was tempted to put the best
face she could on the matter.
Mame, after all, was not fired. Good sense and good will on one side,
repentance on the other, did much to heal the breach. The friendship
continued; they were able to work together as of yore.
In some ways their respect for each other deepened. The business pact
into which they now entered was almost ideal. Mame’s head, from the
mundane aspect of dollars, was by far the shrewder of the two. Money
meant so much more to her than it did to Lady Violet. She had learned a
sharp lesson; also she was “clever as she could stick” and a splendid
worker. From a business point of view she was undoubtedly a treasure.
Mame, for her part, was quick to perceive that the partner pulled
her weight in the boat. Celimene was strongest wherein she lacked.
Taste, style, charm, discretion were worth-while things in high-grade
newspaper work. Lady Violet had all these. And still better, she had
access to sources of information which the ordinary journalist could
seldom tap. She was asked everywhere, known everywhere, not in her
capacity of Celimene of the London _Courier_ or Clio of the New York
_Monitor_, but as the daughter of her late father, a distinguished
man, of her much-respected mother and by virtue of many highly
placed connections. Apart from her skill with a pen, she was a most
accomplished diner-out; one of the few real conversationalists of
either sex left in London. Witty, informed, she repeated her father’s
popularity twenty years before. Powerful friends who remembered and
admired him were glad to open their doors and their hearts to her.
There was every reason why the new firm should prosper. And it did.
Even if New York was paying “big money” on the strength of the “scoop”
in the matter of the Royal engagement, there was reason to think it
would not have to regret its enterprise.
“We’ve now to see that we deliver the goods,” said Mame. “Our London
Letter’s got to be the best on the market.”
Mame went all out. Little Miss Chicago was to be seen everywhere. She,
too, was careful not to associate herself with the London _Courier_ or
the New York _Monitor_. By now she was established more or less as “the
richest thing that ever happened.” The cunning phrase had come to her
by a side wind. Even if secretly it wounded her pride, she had a shrewd
perception of its value.
That two-edged phrase was her open sesame, as Family was the open
sesame of Lady Violet. The world in which she was now beginning to move
with some freedom was willing to forgive much for the sake of Pop. Yet
absolutely nothing was known at the Embassy about the mysterious Mr. Du
Rance. Certain countrywomen of “little Miss Chicago” were indefatigable
in their inquiries. But in the end all boiled down to the plain fact
that Du Rance _père_ was a homely farmer of hogs who, no doubt, had
come into his kingdom rather late in life.
Meanwhile his daughter got about. Even the dance at Clanborough House,
on the evening of the second of June, was graced by her presence. Dear
Emily, who, as all the world knew, was apt to fuss over the invitations
to share her well-considered hospitality, actually sent a card to the
naïve little thing when people like the So-and-So’s, who had been
established three years in Park Lane, had to go wanting.
One thing must be said for Miss Thingamy. She really was an excellent
dancer. Anyhow, dear Violet’s brother, that nice young man in the
Pinks, seemed to take as many turns with her as with that charming
girl Gwendolen Childwick. She, too, was a _partie_. But of course,
rather “heavy cake.” So that towards the end of a most enjoyable
evening--dear Emily’s evenings were always so enjoyable--rumours began
to arise of jealous riding. From the purely dancing point of view Miss
What-was-her-name could put poor Gwendolen to bed any old time--could
fairly tuck her up, as it were, in her little cot. Really no comparison
between the two. Trade, of course, both. But who minds trade these
days? Besides, Celebrated Three Ply Flannelette is so much more
distinguished than Hogs.
That fearful accent, my dear. Quite the wrong kind of American. What
a pity that since the War there has been such a lowering of European
standards. Don’t you remember, my dear, when you and I first came
over, what enormous trouble our parents took that we should do and say
nothing to disgrace them? And even then it wasn’t altogether easy, was
it? Sad, my dear, to see how things have changed. But as I took the
opportunity of saying privately to dear Emily, if that type of American
does really get off with an old marquisate there is bound to be a slump
in the more respectable English titles.