XVII
MAME’S progress to the awning was a triumph. Bobby after bobby passed her along. Once she was fairly under it and she felt the red carpet beneath her high-heeled shoes, of whose perils she was still aware, she bent her mind to the serious business of being Lady Clara de Vere.
Everything seemed to make that business easy. From admiring public and saluting cops in the street, to groom of the chambers, major domo, butlers, footmen and what not in the mansion itself, all were careful to see that she didn’t step out of the picture. Never in her life had she felt so exhilarated as she walked on very slowly towards the white marble staircase.
There was plenty of time to look at the Lawrences and the Romneys. She was the first guest to arrive. The others, who were evidently a most distinguished crowd, were all at the church. Except for the servants she seemed to have the whole place to herself.
If she had not had a good nerve those jolly old hirelings might have put one over on her. They were all male; very numerous, very starched, very stand-off; in fact, they were reeking with Class. She had not seen any hired men to compare with these.
The house was exactly like those fake interiors yousee on the movies, except that this one was real. It might have been a royal palace. She had never been anywhere like it. As she walked alone and delicately up that wonderful staircase she could hardly believe in her surroundings. Equally hard to believe in herself. Mame Durrance must be dreaming.
In a sense she was dreaming. Halfway up the stairs she paused to drive home to herself that she was the Lady Clara de Vere and must behave “as sich.” The truth about her was that like so many of her countrywomen she had a remarkable faculty of seeing herself in pictures. She kept a mirror at the back of her brain. You glanced within and were able to adjust yourself to your environment. In the middle of those stairs the little hick from Cowbarn, Iowa, took a formal oath to be cool, to be collected, to watch her step, and, above all, to see that nobody called her bluff.
Everything so far was easy. There was not a soul on the stairs. But no, she was wrong. When she reached the head of them she came upon a rare old top in livery who bowed as they do in the theatre. He asked for her card. She handed it to him and he bayed out in a deep voice that went echoing all over the landing: “Miss Amethyst Du Rance.”
Mame was quite startled by the sound of her name. Somehow it didn’t seem to belong to her, any more than this ducal mansion seemed to belong to her life. She was dreaming, sure. The echoing “Miss Amethyst Du Rance” seemed to prove it. However, she decided to keep moving, just as if she were broad awake.
The landing gave on to an enormous room, whose massive double doors were thrown right back. And standing in the doorway was a tall, silver-haired dame, dressed in black and white satin, with that particular kind of fagged look which Mame had first observed in the bishop’s niece and was no doubt indigenous to the upper strata of Britain.
As soon as she saw Mame, her tired features lit up in a smile.
“How do you do, Miss Du Rance?” She spoke in a fatigued voice and held out a flabby hand. “The Duchess should be here in a few minutes. You will find some of the presents in there. It may interest you to look at them.”
“Sure,” was Mame’s answer. It was not too ready or too cordial, but rather in the dry tone that Paula Ling calledblasé, which in Europe was always reckoned good style. Lady Clara de Vere was on in this scene, and if the skirt was to act her part her words must be few and chosen with discretion.
Lady C. de V. gave her tortoise-shell folders a shake and then passed on into the room. It was immense, and this was a happy dispensation, since it was encumbered with tables on which hundreds of presents were elaborately laid out.
Such things, however, had no particular interest for Mame. They could be seen any old day. It was the house itself and the people in it that were best worth looking at. Here was such a chance of observing the great world from the inside as might never happenagain. She must learn as much as she possibly could in the short time at her disposal.
A cursory glance at the presents was all she gave. Then she wandered away through a suite of smaller rooms, all of which were unoccupied. But they were very interesting with their richly patterned carpets wonderful to the tread; glorious tapestries upon the walls, candelabra which reminded her of certain photographs she had seen of Versailles; mirrors, pictures, bric-à-brac in rare profusion. It was freely said in England that the aristocracy had been killed by the war, but from what she saw of Clanborough House there was life in the old dog yet.
However, these things did not greatly matter. The folks were what she was really wishful to see. Therefore she soon returned to the big room. After a careful survey she fixed herself in a strategic corner which partly concealed her yet also commanded a fair view of the open doors and the broad landing and staircase beyond.
In a very few minutes the first of the folks came into view. Even without the guidance of their costumes Mame would have had no difficulty in identifying them from their pictures in the papers as the bride and bridegroom. They made a young and handsome and jolly-looking pair. Any girl might have been envious; but Mame was far too busy to indulge that mean passion.
For the folks began to pour in now with a vengeance. Among the first arrivals was a bunch ofRoyalties. It was easy to tell these were the Real Cream, by the care with which they were herded into a distant corner of the room. Here they stood apart, surrounded by dames-in-waiting and sconce-bearers. From time to time some old grandee was brought up to speak to them. Almost the first of these was the old duchess with the Wellington nose whom Mame’s unknown friend had claimed for a godmother. She came up leaning on a black cane and was soon in deep conversation with a particularly upstanding dame whom Mame guessed by the look of her to be the Queen of England.
Democrat though Mame was proud to consider herself, she took an undemocratic interest in all that went on. The look of the Royalties and the detached way in which they bore themselves interested her enormously. But she was not able to give them undivided attention. From her point of view other important things were beginning to happen.
By now the folks were simply swarming up the stairs. There was a loud hum of voices; a mighty lot of hand-shaking; considerable laughter; and as a mob of guests began to percolate into the room and to circulate around the tables Mame was confronted with the difficult task of picking out those who were most worth while. Plutes were so thick on the ground that it called for more than her knowledge to say who were not worth while.
Suddenly her eye was caught by a braided morning coat which somehow had a remarkably familiar look.Where had she seen it? Which Prince was in that morning’sDaily Lyre? Why, to be sure, it was the young fellow Bill! Which Prince was Bill? A fascinating inquiry. Before it could be answered, so swiftly swirled this human vortex, the drama became immensely more complicated. For, coming in through the door, looking just as gay, just as cool, just as chic as ever, was her chance acquaintance of the Carlton who had turned out to be a fairy godmother.
Mame’s excitement mounted so oddly at the sight of this girl, whom she hardly expected to see again, that she had to restrain a shout of welcome. This dump, she reminded herself, was not the cafeteria on Second Street, Cowbarn, Iowa, but Clanborough House, Mayfair, London, England. In the words of the song the Colonel’s Lady and Judy O’Grady might be sisters under their skins, but if Miss Du Rance—the fool puss!—didn’t watch out, she would be tearing a large hole in the manners of Lady Clara de Vere.
Was the girl going to look towards her corner? Or was she not? It was no cert. The folks were still pouring in; royalties, senators, professional beauts. It was no snap. The girl, who was showing some fine teeth and chattering like a good one, seemed to have a word for them all.
These were anxious moments. It would be just too bad if Mame didn’t catch the eye of the unknown friend. The entire future might turn upon it. She must thank her for the invitation. And this time shemust see that the fairy godmother did not get away without revealing who she was.
It began to seem, however, as if Mame would have to leave her nice, comfortable corner and go and chase her. Each moment the place was getting fuller; each moment more of the folks intervened between Mame and the quarry. The human tide surging around was slowly but surely carrying her the other way.
Mame did not want, all the same, to quit a post which so finely commanded the main doorway. But she must keep the unknown in the middle of her eye or she would lose her. However, Mame’s luck was in. The girl was hustled to the right of the big table, instead of to the left, as Mame had feared that she would be.
This made all the difference. She came back on her tracks. All kinds of whales were still hanging around her. But Mame could not help that. It was now or it was never. Still, the Lady Clara de Vere did not let a whoop or a coo-ee or anything in the nature of a view holloa. Preserving a ladylike calm, that would have had no success at Cowbarn, she waved her white-gloved hands and then clapped them together, one, two, three!
The girl was so engaged with her friends that the first time failed to do the trick. Repeating the performance, she clapped still louder, one, two, three! Then the fairy godmother suddenly looked Mame full in the eye. For one brief instant a kind of mild surprise shone over her and then she said quite cheerily; “Itissporting of you to show up here.”
Miss Amethyst Du Rance took a strong pull of her young self. This scene belonged entire to Lady C. de Vere, a fact she must not forget. “Not at all,” was Mame’s answer. She prided herself that it was a good answer. Already she had learned that in London, England, the Cream when in doubt either said “Quite” or “Not at all.”
“Can you tell me which is King George?” Mame congratulated herself that her fool mind was functioning. And if the apt question was put in a voice that at Cowbarn would have ranked as a mere whisper, even amid the spate of conversation it was fully audible.
“Not here yet,” was the answer, casual but gay. “Shouldn’t wonder if he’s splitting a small soda with Uncle John.”
“Oh!” said Mame. So cool, so unconcerned, so chaffing was the jane about it all, that from the tone of her Mame was by no means sure that she was not a royalty herself.
“I just want to thank you right from my heart, for sending me this invite.”
“Jolly good of you to come.” Nothing could have been lighter than the girl’s tone, but in Mame’s opinion nothing could have been more pleasant.
Her next remark sent her up still higher in Mame’s esteem. “Would you like some tea?” The words as well as the tone were music.
“I’ll say yes.” Such fervour was in Mame’s reply that it seemed as if Lady Clara de Vere had missed her cue.
“Come on, then. Let us go downstairs to the buffet before the mob breaks loose.”
It was not easy to find a way through the crowd now blocking the large room. But under the accomplished guidance of the girl they were able to emerge into one of the smaller rooms. Thence they escaped through a private door concealed behind an imposing arras and so down an unsuspected staircase, which proved to be a short cut to a very pleasant region wherein was contained “the eats.”
Mame deduced from the competence of her guide that she had the run of the place. Evidently she knew her way. “Mustn’t go in there,” she indicated a room to the right, whose smartly decorated tables looked particularly enticing. “That’s reserved for the wallahs. Common you and me had better pile in here.”
The room on the left, although less exclusive, had some good points. There were tea and cakes in profusion; also a number of snug little tables at which to enjoy them. None was yet occupied and they were able to take their pick. The one they chose was just behind the entrance door, out of the way of everybody.
“Lucky to get in before the squash,” said the guide as they sat down. “Half London’ll be here soon.”
Hardly had a superb footman, in powder and knee-breeches, provided a tray containing not merely tea and cakes but also caviar sandwiches, when the prophecy was borne out. The small tables began rapidly to fill.
A couple of pigtails, smartly ribboned, whose owners were immensely voluble, soon commandeered the nexttable to Mame’s. Armed with pencils and cards they seemed to be in the middle of a mysterious game.
“Bags I the noo Murcan am-bass-a-door,” the first flapper, a tall and leggy sixteen who wore spectacles, could be heard to say in a high-pitched voice. “Two for his goatee. One for his horn lamps.”
“Bags I the King Maj,” excitedly proclaimed the second flapper, who was perhaps two years younger than the first.
“King Maj is barred,” said the first wielder of the pencil in a severe tone. “You know that. Besides, you haven’t seen him.”
“When he comes I bags him,” the second sports-woman maintained stoutly. “And I shall count ten.”
“It’s not according to the rules.”
“Oh, yes, as they play at Oxford college. They always count ten for the King Maj.”
Great argument ensued. It was decidedly technical; also inclined to be heated. Mame’s companion, who seemed to follow it with amusement mingled with a little good-natured scorn, gently observed: “These young modern flappers are really dreadful.” And then she proceeded to attract their attention.
It was not a judicious action.
“Hulloa, Vi!” cried the flappers. They rose as one, and like a pair of excited young colts came gambolling about Mame’s table.
For all their rather riotous volubility they had a natural attractiveness. Also there was a strong facial likenesswhich led Mame to think these high-spirited creatures must be sisters of her friend.
The assumption was correct.
“This is sister Marjorie,” said the girl, shooting a good-humoured finger at Miss Spectacles. “And this is sister Doris. The light and the joy of our home.”
Both flappers ceased their prattle for a moment to look shrewdly at Mame and to bow quite nicely. Then, as their elders did not seem inclined to pay them much attention, they suddenly returned to their argument.
“Vi knows the rules of the Beaver game. Vi knows everything.”
“For the love of Pete go back and eat your buns,” said the elder sister. “I never heard so much noise since Poppa fell into the canal.”
At this sally each young flapper laughed a loud and merry ha-ha. Then, giving their manes a shake, they humorously retired to the next table, where with unabated violence they still continued to discuss the rules of the Beaver game, which had proved so demoralising to British flapperdom.
“I expect you have young sisters of your own.” This to Mame by way of apology.
Mame had no sisters of her own. But she responded to the friendliness. The more she saw of this new acquaintance the more she liked her. And the family episode in which she had just been involved showed her in such a happy light that Mame’s heart warmed.
She decided to take advantage of the moment by finding out who the unknown was. Their first meetingwas still in her mind. At the Carlton she had seemed to claim so much for herself that Mame’s suspicions had been aroused. But she had so amply kept the promise she had made; and now this afternoon at this big show she seemed as much top-side as ever, that, without further delay, it became imperative for the mystery to be cleared up.
Mame took inspiration from another caviar sandwich. And then she said with the amusing directness that was so characteristic:
“I just love those sisters of yours. But who are you, anyway?”
The girl produced the cigarette case Mame had already had occasion to admire and neatly detached a visiting card. Handing it across the table she denoted the name in the centre. “The Marchioness of Kidderminster.” One finger brushed it lightly. “That’s my mother.”
“Gee!” breathed Mame softly. She was a hard-shell democrat, but she was rather impressed by what looked like a famous title.
Below the name of Mommer, in the right-hand corner of the card, was a string of lesser names, yet in their way quite as intriguing: Lady Mary Treherne, Lady Alice Treherne, Lady Violet Treherne.
The white-gloved finger came slowly to rest on the last of the three. “That’s me.”
Mame took the card in her hand. She gazed at it with a slightly incredulous eye.
“Say, listen, honey!” In the thrill of the momentshe quite forgot the rôle she was so determined to play: “Say, listen, honey, areyouone of this bunch of hicks?”
Lady Violet’s laugh paid honest tribute to this priceless Miss Du Rance. She was unique. But the new friend was not set up with herself or her own belongings.
“A long and stupid family.” Impossible not to like the frankness. “But our mother’s rather a duck.”
“I’ll say so.”
“You’ll like her when you meet her.”
Mame’s eyes glowed hopefully.
“But I fear it won’t be to-day. She’s having to sit up and purr, poor thing, among all the brass hats. Nothing below the rank of an ambassador’ll be able to get near her for the next two hours.”
“I’ll just love some time to meet the Marchioness.” Mame spoke slowly and carefully, after the manner of Mr. Falkland Vavasour. With his help she was able this time to bring the Lady C. de V. into action. “Perhaps you won’t mind giving me your private address and your telephone number.”
“I live in a small hutch of my own,” said Lady Violet. “No. 16b Half Moon Street, bath hot and cold, company’s own water. Telephone double o, nine, six, Mayfair.”
Mame carefully wrote the most salient of these details on the back of the visiting card.
“If you are staying on in London I hope you’ll look me up.”
Lady C. de V. would be de-light-ed.
“I’m always in Tuesdays four to six. Very glad to see you if you’ll come round.”
“You bet I will.”
But the face of Mame suddenly fell. For she remembered how terribly narrow was the financial margin upon which she was at that moment poised. It sprang to the tip of her tongue to ask this new and influential friend, who no doubt was in everything and had all sorts of strings to pull, if she could help her in the matter of placing her stuff. But pride restrained her. Prudence also. This was hardly a moment in which she could venture to give herself away.