The little dinner was capital. In every small but considered detail
it could not have been nicer. Elmer P., as the world looks for in one
of his eminence, was growing to be a judge of food and wine. Also
the shrewd dog knew how to choose his company. On his right sat Lady
Violet, on his left was Mame. Over and beyond this pair of friends and
boosters was vacancy, the limitless inane, at least so far as those
three minds were concerned, although at other tables sat persons not
without importance in their way.
In return for delicate food and dry champagne Elmer received high
entertainment from the lively tongues of his charming guests. Both were
observers of the human comedy, yet they observed it in the right way.
There was nothing in their talk that was spiteful or backstairs, or
beneath the dignity of human nature. Their aptness, wit, and general
information, their opinions upon books, plays, music and the world at
large gave the host a mental punch from the _hors d’œuvres_ to the
comice pear and the _crème de menthe_, for which crude liqueur both
ladies confessed a partiality.
Elmer had had his triumphs, in the last week or so particularly, but
frankly he doubted whether he had ever enjoyed a meal like this. It
was so gay. And there was the glamour of new experience. His life had
suddenly been touched to newer and finer issues.
When the coffee appeared, at the end of the meal, Lady Violet drank
hers quickly. Then quite unexpectedly she rose. She would have to fly.
There was a musical party she had promised to attend. A stupid affair,
but it was the call of duty.
Mame and Elmer were pressing in their entreaties for their amusing
friend to remain, but she was not to be seduced from the true path.
Besides, as she laughingly said, it was a perfect night of stars. And
this being a sufficiently rare occurrence for London, she hoped that
Elmer--if she might use his Christian name?--would walk with Mame
through Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall, up the Haymarket, across
the Circus and down the full length of Piccadilly. She ventured to
prescribe that route, because a little bird had whispered that if Elmer
duly followed it he might look for a very pleasant surprise, for which
Mame was alone responsible.
This was all so enigmatic that Elmer might have been tempted to
disbelieve Lady Violet. But he knew she was no trifler. Emphatically
she was one of the people who did not make promises unless they were
able to deliver the goods.
“We’ll go along and try it, anyway,” conceded Elmer the polite. And
being something of an altruist into the bargain: “But you’ll come with
us, won’t you? We can’t lose _you_!”
Lady Violet’s refusal was amusingly definite. She was late already;
she must fly. Besides, there was an even more cogent reason. That,
however, she was careful not to disclose to Elmer P. Dobree. As that
_homme du monde_ moved a bit ahead of her to the restaurant door to see
her into her cloak and her taxi, she bent to Mame’s ear and whispered
urgently, “My child, if you don’t put one over on him to-night I’ll
never speak to you again.”