Mame did not feel like innocence, but according to one of the wise guys of the office calendar, speech is given one to conceal one’s thoughts.
What cat? Out of what bag? What was disgusting?
Monsieur Talleyrand, the name of the guy in question, would not have disowned his pupil. Than Mame’s lisping tones, nothing could have been simpler or more concealing.
“You remember that Royal engagement?”
“What Royal engagement?”
“The one we had so much difficulty in deciding whether it would be cricket to divulge to New York?”
Ye-es, Mame seemed rather vaguely to remember.
“Well, the Times says it has the approval and the sanction of their Majesties.”
“Can’t think what the boy sees in her, I’m sure.” Mame spoke cautiously. “If that really was the girl we saw the other night. Not what I call a looker, anyway.”
“No accounting for taste,” said Lady Violet philosophically; and then less philosophically, “but what really annoys me—”