The Book
All the World
Is Reading
“Gee!” gasped Elmer. The secret had been carefully kept; he had not an
inkling! A surprise indeed, a masterpiece of boosting.
Mame’s voice rose in triumph. “Say, listen, Elmer. I’ll tell the world
this is where we put one over on London, England.”
Down Piccadilly they walked on air. No word passed. But to keep in
touch with himself and the mundane realities Elmer took Mame’s hand.
These were sublime moments. Suddenly, high above the famous street, the
sign flamed out again.
“Say, listen, Mame,” began Elmer hoarsely. But even with all his genius
to help him he did not know how to end, so he merely squeezed her hand.
The dear little go-getter, how slick she was! But she was also
something much better than slick. She was fine and true. A minute they
stood gazing at the recurring sign in all its brilliancy and then, life
being too wonderful to stand still in it, they moved on hand in hand.
Sure it was destiny they should be walking thus, four thousand miles,
four thousand solid miles, from the dear funny old spot in which they
had walked last. If only Cowbarn, Iowa, could see that sign. The book
all the world was reading; the book that had immortalised the Folks.
Would they recognise themselves in all their humour and their quiddity?
When speech was possible between them, which was not until they were
near the precincts of the Ritz, it was Mame who dared. “Elmer,” her
voice was very soft, “I’m feeling pretty good about our book.” She said
“our book.” “There’s not one word we’ll ever have to wish away. The
folks aren’t saints, the folks aren’t, but there ain’t a line that’s
mean. There’s nothing to make ’em sorry. Some of the stories you might
have told you didn’t tell. Some of the things you might have said you
didn’t say. Elmer, I’m feeling pretty good about that book.”
Elmer, too, was feeling pretty good. In fact so good was Elmer feeling,
that for all he was fully launched in the realm of letters, he still
couldn’t find a word. Not one word. But like all young men of force
and originality he enjoyed a certain power of action. Quite suddenly,
without premeditation, he put one over on Mame. In the dark shadow cast
by the Ritz arcade, he kissed the little go-getter.
Mame was thrilled by the sheer audacity of the assault. But there was
the authority of the book all the world was reading that the heart of
woman is a queer thing; so she just didn’t mind at all. However, she
did not speak again, until hand in hand they had convoyed each other
past a line of pirates in the guise of taxi cabmen, whom the law allows
to range themselves in a row opposite Devonshire House. Nay, she
didn’t speak until they had passed the end of Half Moon Street, the
other side of the road, and on by the railings of the Green Park.
It was when they halted to gaze at the bright windows of the Ladies
Imperium that Mame’s soft voice was heard.
“That’s the hen club I belong to.”
Elmer was impressed.
“It’s the Chickest hen club in London.”
Elmer guessed it was.
“Cocks are not admitted. If they was,”--Mame said was, yet she knew
perfectly well it wasn’t grammar,--“I’d take you right in and buy you a
cocktail.”
This was a little too much for the author of _Prairie City_. Such
un-American play upon words was the palpable fruit of mental stress,
but in combination with the magic of the stars it was a little too much
for Elmer P. Dobree.
“Now, then, Mame Durrance, can that.” And then immediately opposite
those flaming windows and in the lee of the park railings which hid
them well, he kissed her again with rapturous violence.
After this stimulating episode they moved slowly along by the Green
Park. They still walked hand in hand; even now it didn’t seem safe to
let go of each other. But when they came to the Quadriga, that symbol
of victory significantly poised on the top of the park gates, which is
much and justly admired, they stopped and gazed up.
They gazed up at the Quadriga by the royal light of the stars. Their
hands were locked in each other’s. The eternal verities caught them
suddenly. Mighty, mighty forces were flowing through and over, through
and over, this brief and transient, this pitifully brief and transient,
life of man.
“Elmer!” It was Mame’s voice, but hardly more than a whisper, it was so
solemn and so hushed. “Imagine, Elmer, you and me--”
But Elmer said nothing. With a queer tightening of the breast he
continued to gaze upwards to the symbol of victory on the top of the
park gates.