But Mame did not agree. “Those boobs are going up. They know we are the goods, else they wouldn’t have been so free with their cables at the onset.”
“But—!” persisted Lady Violet.
Mame took paper and pen. She spent a tense five minutes on a piece of careful if rather syncopated prose.
Original terms rock bottom. Sorrow. Du Rance.
Lady Violet was constrained to laugh rather wryly over the fruit of her labours. “Ours, I fancy, will be the sorrow.”
The undefeated little go-getter laughed, too, but for a different reason. Once more she rose and crammed on her hat. Again she sallied forth to the convenient post office round the corner in Dover Street, while her friend was left wondering how she dared!
A further twenty-four hours went by. Plus twenty-five minutes on this occasion, to be exact. And then appeared the stern Davis with cablegram number three.
A Napoleon-at-Austerlitz look came upon Mame. “Keep the messenger,” she instructed Davis before opening the envelope. Full of will as she was, there could be no denying that her hand trembled and that her face was pale. Suddenly she gave a whoop of triumph. “There, honey, what did I tell you?” She tossed the cablegram to Celimene. “Seems to me that old office calendar is right every time.”
Lady Violet read amazedly: