XXII
WHEN Mame had stepped into the lift outside the door of 16b, by pure coincidence she found it occupied already by the tall, immaculate top-hatted form of Bill. It was a piece of luck. She had taken quite a fancy to this young man and was ready to seize a chance of improving the acquaintance.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” he said, with hearty and cheerful politeness.
Miss Du Rance left him no sort of doubt upon that point. “Lady Violet’s your sister, ain’t she?”
Bill said she was. Further he remarked in genial brotherly fashion: “A good sort, old Vi! And clever as blazes, you know. Got clean away with all the brains of our family.”
Mame offered no comment, but she felt somehow that it was highly probable. Bill, with all his charm and manliness, made no pretence at intellect. But in the opinion of Miss Du Rance he had better things to show.
When they reached the ground floor and found themselves in the vestibule, Bill said, “Can I get you a taxi or anything?”
“Are you taxi-ing yourself?” inquired the judicious Mame.
“No, I’m hitting the pike.” Bill was proud of his American.
“Same here. Which way you going?”
“Along Piccadilly as far as St. James’s Street.”
Mame was going along Piccadilly as far as the Circus. They might walk together if he didn’t mind.
Bill said he was enchanted. Perhaps he was. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the contrary. An amusing little puss. She seemed different from all the other girls he knew. He must ask Vi what part of the States she came from. Perhaps he might have asked the amusing little puss herself had he not been kept so busy answering the questions she put to him.
The number of questions Bill had to answer in their pleasant saunter up the street, and across the road, and by the Green Park railings was astonishing. But he didn’t mind at all. In fact he rather liked it. She was as fresh as paint. And simply rippling with intelligence. No end of punch in her, too. Yes, she was altogether different from the other girls he knew. As for her comically expressive phrases, she sort of fired them off, a hundred to the minute, like some jolly old Maxim gun.
At the top of Saint James’s Street, they came to a stop and Bill remarked: “I get off here.”
Miss Du Rance looked a trifle disappointed.
“Goin’ into my pothouse to play a game at snooker. Into that funny old box, yonder, with the bow window.” Bill’s hand indicated Ward’s Club just opposite.
Somehow, yet without saying so, little Miss Du Rance, the quaint and charming American, was able to convey that to her mind for such an upstanding young fellow to spend a fair spring evening in that way was a pity.
“Daresay she’s right,” mused Bill. A bit of a thought reader, Bill.
“I’mgoing as far as the Circus,” said the droll minx.
It really was such a fine evening that Bill suddenly decided that he might walk as far as the Circus for the good of his health.
When the young man had been steered in safety past the dangerous corner, the ply of questions began again.
Did he like living in London? What was his favourite flower? Did he care for jazz music? Who was his favourite author? Wasn’t it just a bore to be a blood-peer? Did he like fishing better than gunning? Or did he like gunning better than fishing? He played polo of course? How did he like the Prince of Wales? What did he think of soldiering? By the way, what was the name of his regiment? She had heard, but had forgotten.
“The Pinks.”
“Why were they called the Pinks?”
“A sort of rival show to the Blues.”
“But why the Blues?”
Bill shook his head and laughed. “Why anything?”
“Yes—why anything?”
“Had he got a decoration?”
As a matter of fact he had several. And a little shamefacedly he admitted it.
Then why didn’t he wear them?
People didn’t wear their decorations except on full-dress occasions.
“If I had a V. C.,” said Miss Du Rance, “I should just wear it any old time. And King George himself wouldn’t stop me.”
Without going so far as to offer contradiction, Bill seemed a little inclined to doubt it.
Howbeit that was neither here nor there. And their walk was most enjoyable. Bill was kept in a ripple of amusement. This little Miss Du Rance was the livest thing out. As for her ply of questions it was so unexpected that it never became tiresome. Perhaps it was because she was so nailingly pretty. Those serious grey eyes were as good as anything he had seen in a month of Sundays.
When they got to the Tube in Piccadilly Circus said Miss Du Rance, in whose voice was regret: “I must leave you now. You can go back to your snooker. But I am just awfully pleased and proud to have met you.” She held forth a neat white glove. “I do hope we shall meet again.”
Bill said, as he grasped the white glove fervently: “We must—if youdothink so.”
“I don’t say what I don’t think.” The sternness of Miss Du Rance was perfectly killing.
Bill, who was still enjoying every moment of her, ventured to hope that she didn’t. And as an earnestof that he went on to ask, tentatively, whether she cared for dancing.
“I’ll say yes.”
“That’s splendid! We must get Vi to arrange a party one afternoon for the Orient Dance Club.”
“When?”
Bill was hardly prepared to be picked up in that way. Such businesslike promptitude was a threat to his gravity. “One day next week if it can be managed and it’ll be convenient to you.”
Next week, any old day, would be quite convenient to Miss Du Rance. At that they left it.