V
THE next morning the fog had lifted and Mame set out for Fleet Street. By Mrs. Toogood’s advice she boarded Bus 26 which passed the end of Montacute Square; and having made a friend of the conductor, a kindly and cheerful young man, he promised to let her know when they came to Tun Court.
He was as good as his word. In about ten minutes he pulled the cord and popped his head into the bus. “Y’are, miss. Tun Court’s just opper-site.” And then as a concession to Mame’s accent, which was a long way from home: “Watch out, missy, when you cross the street.”
Mame with her recent experience of Broadway and Fifth Avenue felt she could have crossed this street on her head. It was so narrow. And although there was no lack of traffic it was moving slow with a remarkable sense of order and alignment. But Mame liked the young conductor for his briskness and his courtesy; and as she stepped off the knife-board and with the fleetness of a slender-ankled nymph she dodged between the delivery vans of the WestminsterGazetteand theMorning Postshe winged him a bright smile.
London, so far, was a city of disappointments. Tun Court added to their number. It was mean, insignificant,tumble-down, grimy. But Mame had read that Doctor Johnson or some other famous guy had either lived or died in it. The latter probably. No man would have chosen Tun Court to live in, unless he had gone off the handle, as the famous, she had also read, were more apt to do than ordinary folks.
The salient fact about Tun Court, however, had nothing to do with Doctor Johnson. It was the home of the well-known Society journalHigh Life. Mame would not have looked to find a paper of repute housed in this nest of frowsty, mildewed offices in which there was not space to swing a cat. But she did look and with such poor success that she had to open her bag and produce the address which Paula Ling had given her in order to verify it. Yes, it was O.K.: Number Nine, Tun Court, Fleet Street. Yonder, through that decaying arch, which by some means had evaded the great fire of B.C. 1666—or it may have been A.D.?—was the footpath the ancient Romans had laid along the Fleet Ditch; and the cobblestones upon which Mame stood, which no doubt had been laid by the Romans also, indubitably rejoiced in the name Tun Court, since straight before her eyes a sign was up to say so.
The puzzle was to find Number Nine. Tun Court dealt in names, not numbers. Among the namesHigh Lifewas not to be found. There was the registered London office of theQuick Thinkers’ Chronicle; also of theBroadcasters’ Review; also of the official organ of the Amalgamated Society of Pew Openers. These were the portents which leaped to Mame’s eye, but theone she sought did not seem to be there. At the far end of the alley, however, where the light was so bad that it was difficult to see anything, she was just able to decipher the legend,High Life. Top Floor. It was painted on a wall, inside a doorway.
Mame boldly attacked some dark stairs, very hollow sounding and decrepit and full of sharp turns, passingen routethe outer portals of the EatanswillGazetteand other influential journals. The higher rose the stairs the darker they grew. But at last patience was rewarded.High Life—Inquiries, met the pilgrim’s gaze at the top of the second pair of stairs; yet had that gaze not been young and keen a match would have been needed to read the inscription on the wall.
She knocked on the door and went in. A pig-tailed flapper lifted her eyes slowly from Volume 224 of the Duchess Library.
In her best Broadway manner Mame asked if the editor was in. Miss Pigtail did not appear to be impressed by the Broadway manner. She made a bluff at concealing an out-size in yawns, laid aside her novelette with an air of condescension for which Mame longed to smack her face, and said, “I’ll take in your name.”
Mame felt discouraged, but she was determined not to let the minx know it. With an air she took a card from her bag; and Miss Pigtail after one supercilious glance at it went forth to an inner room whose door was marked Private.
In about thirty seconds Miss Pigtail reappeared.“This way, please,” she said haughtily. Mame still had a desire to put one over on the young madam; but evidently she was coming to business all right.
Seated before a roll-top desk, in a stuffy room twelve feet by twelve, whose only other furniture were an almanac and a vacant chair, was the editor ofHigh Life. At least Mame surmised that the gentleman who received her occupied that proud position, even if he did not quite fulfil her idea of the part. It was difficult to say just where he fell short, but somehow he did fall short. He was one of those large flabby men who are only seen without a pipe in their mouths when they are putting liquids into it. His eyes were tired, his front teeth didn’t seem to fit, and he had that air of having been born three highballs below par which some men inherit and others acquire.
The editor ofHigh Lifewas not a prepossessing man, although the most striking thing about him, his large moustache, was so wonderfully pointed and waxed, that Mame felt quite hypnotised by it. However, she took a pull on herself, made her best bow and elegantly presented Paula Wyse Ling’s introduction letter.
The visitor was invited to a chair. Then after brief examination of the envelope the editor made clear that he was not the person to whom it was addressed. “My name is Judson,” he said, “Digby Judson. I took over from Walter Waterson about nine months ago.”
“So long as you’re the main guy,” Mame assuredhim, “it’ll be all right. I want to connect up with this paper.”
With a slight frown of perplexity Mr. Digby Judson opened Miss Paula Ling’s letter. “It says nothing about experience,” he remarked mildly. “And to be quite candid I don’t know Paul M. Wing from Adam.”
“It’s a her,” said Mame matter-of-factly. “Paula Ling’s the name.”
“I begherpardon, but I don’t know her from Eve.”
Mame had a feeling that she had struck a concealed rock. “Old Man Waterson would have, anyway,” she said; and with a royal gesture she indicated her own card, now lying on the editorial blotting pad.
Digby Judson took up the card and laughed. Mame was determined not to be sensitive, she simply could not afford to be, but that laugh somehow jarred her nerves. “CowbarnIndependent.” He gave her a comic look from the extreme corner of a bleared eye. “Holy Jones!”
Mame’s heart sank. It was New York over again. This guy was not quite so brusque, but he had the same sneer in his manner. A sick feeling came upon her that she was up against it.
“CowbarnIndependent! I don’t think you’ll be able to get away with that.”
It was almost like casting an aspersion upon Mame’s parents. Natural pugnacity leaped to her eyes. In fact it was as much as she could do to prevent it from jumping off the end of her tongue. “A lot you know about it,” she yearned to say, but prudently didn’t.
The editor ofHigh Lifetoyed with the card and drew a mock serious sigh for which Mame could have slain him. “When did you arrive in this country, Miss Du Rance?”
“I landed Liverpool yesterday morning.”
“And may I ask what you propose to do now you’ve landed?”
For all the grim depth of her conviction that she could not afford to be thin-skinned, she resented the subtle impertinence of this catechism. Yes, it was New York over again. New York had advised her to cut out the Cowbarn and already she rather wished she had. But she had figured it out that London being a foreign city would not guess the sort of burg her home town was.
All the same her faith in herself was not shaken. It was weak to have these qualms. Mame Durrance was Mame Durrance if she hailed from Cowbarn, Iowa, and Abe Lincoln was Abe Lincoln even if he was raised in the wilds of Kentucky.
She crimsoned with mortification, but took herself vigorously in hand. “What’ll I do now I’ve landed? What do you suppose I’ll do?”
“Knock us endways, I expect.”
“That’d be too easy, I guess—with some of you.”
Mr. Digby Judson was by way of being a human washout but he liked this power of repartee. Few were the things he admired, but foremost among them was what he called “vim.” This amusing spitfire certainly had her share of that.
“You think I’m a little hick.” It is difficult to be wise when your temper breaks a string. “But I ain’t. Leastways I ain’t goin’ to be always. With European experience I’ll improve some.”
“Ye-es, I daresay.”
The dry composure of the editor’s voice caused Mame to see red. “I’m over here to pull the big stuff. An’ don’t forget it.”
Mr. Digby Judson found it hard to conceal his amusement. He gave his moustache a twirl and said patronisingly: “Well, Miss Du Rance, what can we do for you in the meantime?”
“Help me to a few dollars.”
Mr. Judson threw up his hands with an air of weary scorn. “My good girl, to seek dollars in Fleet Street is like looking for a flea in a five-acre plot. Never have they been so scarce or so many people after ’em. And pretty spry too, you know. They’ve studied the newspaper public and can give it just what it wants.”
Mame was undaunted. “A chance to see what I can do—that’s all I ask.”
“What can you do?”
“Suppose I write a bunch of articles on British social life as it strikes an on-time American.”
“Let us suppose it.” The editor had no enthusiasm.
“Will you print the guff and pay for it?”
This was in the nature of a leading question. Time was needed for Mr. Judson’s reply. “Rather depends, you know, on the sort of thing it is.” Out of deference for the feelings of his visitor he did his best tohide the laugh in his eyes. “You see what we chiefly go for is first-hand information about the aristocracy.”
Miss Du Rance was aware of that.
“Are you in a position to supply it?”
“I expect I’ll be able to supply it as well as most if I get the chance.”
“Well,” said Digby Judson, fixing Mame with a fishlike eye, “when you find yourself included in a party at a smart country house you can send along an account of the sayings and doings of your fellow guests, a description of their clothes, where they are going to spend the summer, who is in love with who and all that kind of bilge, and I’ll be very glad to consider it.”
Mame thanked Mr. Judson for his sporting offer. “I’m sure you’ll fall for my junk when you see it. There’ll be pep in it. But of course I’ll want intros to start in.”
“You have introductions, I presume?” The editor still hid his smile.
Unfortunately Miss Du Rance was rather short of introductions. But she hopedHigh Lifewould be able to make good the deficiency.
High Life, it seemed, was not in a position to do so. But it had a suggestion to offer. Mr. Digby Judson looked through a litter of papers on his desk. Detaching one from the pile he refreshed his memory by a careful perusal. Then he said: “There is a vacancy for a housemaid, I believe, at Clanborough House, Mayfair.”
The news left Mame cold.
“We have influence with the housekeeper at Clanborough House. She is not exactly a member of our staff, but she receives a fee to keep our interests at heart. Clanborough House is still a power in the political and social world. The position of housemaid offers considerable scope for a person of intelligence such as you appear to be, Miss Du Rance.”
“I? Housemaid! Me?” The voice of Miss Du Rance went up a whole octave.
“Of course,” said the editor, “to be quite candid, you would have rather to put a crimp in your style. These great houses are decidedly conservative. But you would find opportunities, large opportunities, believe me, in such a position for obtaining the information we require.”
Mame was staggered. The rôle of hired girl, even in a mansion, had not entered her calculations. “What do you take me for?” She rebuttoned her gloves, snorting blood and fire. “Don’t you see I’m a lady?”
Mr. Digby Judson gazed fixedly at Mame, stroking his exotic moustache in the process. “There are ladiesandladies. Frankly, Miss Du Rance, I can’t promise much success over that course. You see, in this country at the present time we are overstocked, even with the genuine article. We are as prolific of ladies in England as they are of rabbits in Australia. But what we want here is pep and that’s where you Americans have got the pull. It’s pep, Miss Du Rance, we are out for, and that, I take it, you are able to supply.”
Mame looked death at the editor. But she said nothing.
“If you’re wise you’ll give ladyism the go by. Better let me see if I can wangle this billet for you at Clanborough House. A rare chance, believe me, for a girl like yourself, to study our upper class from the inside. You’ll be lucky if you get another such opportunity. If you really give your mind to the job I feel sure you’ll do well.”
“No hired girling for me, I thank you,” Mame spoke in a level voice.
Mr. Digby Judson looked a trifle disappointed. “Well, think it over. But I am fully convinced of one thing.”
A down-and-out feeling upon her, Mame asked dully what the thing was.
“It’s the only terms on which you are ever likely to find yourself at Clanborough House or any other place of equal standing.”
Mame bit her lip to conceal her fury. The insult went deeper than any she had received in New York. As she bowed stiffly and turned to go she had a sudden thirst for Mr. Digby Judson’s blood.
She had reached the door, its clumsy knob was in her hand when she turned again, and said with a slow smile over-spreading a crimson face, “You’ll excuse me asking, won’t you, but do you mind telling me if it’sverydifficult to train canaries to roost on your moustache?”