Lady Violet shook her head. So much did conscience trouble her, that even Mame, in whom strong passions had been loosed, felt bound to respect it. A real pity, all the same. Here was a scoop. The risk, therefore, was worth taking. But now that Lady Violet was standing on a matter of principle, Mame saw that nothing was likely to be gained by argument.
Among other little bits of spice was one which Mame herself felt inclined to query. Celimene laughingly suggested that the alliance of one of Britain’s marquises and a certain celebrated Three Ply Flannelette might be intelligently anticipated.
“Oh, but I’ll say not.”
“It is bound to happen, I assure you,” affirmed the sister of the marquis in question.
“’Tisn’t how I read the lines in his hand. And the leaves in his teacup. And the spots on his cards.”
Lady Violet smiled at this decisiveness. But Mame was unmoved. “Besides,” said she, “do you suppose New York and Bawston care a hoot which young skirt he’s going to marry?”
“I agree. And yet not altogether if I may say so. Miss C. has American connections.”
“American connections!” Mame suspected from the first that Miss Three Ply’s trained-to-the-minuteness had not a European origin. “Go-getting with Poppa’s millions, is she?”
“She is always spoken of as a fresh and charming English girl, but it wouldn’t surprise one if the rumour of her engagement to Bill interested certain people of importance on Fifth Avenue.”
“It’d surprise me. I’d be surprised considerable.” Mame was careful to keep these musings to herself. “If ever I hear the Voice that breathed o’er Eden lifting off the roof of Saint Margaret’s while that pair of galoots marches up the aisle you can call me Cissy.”