There is a tide

by J. C. Snaith

“We’ve now to see that we deliver the goods,” said Mame. “Our London Letter’s got to be the best on the market.”

Mame went all out. Little Miss Chicago was to be seen everywhere. She, too, was careful not to associate herself with the London Courier or the New York Monitor. By now she was established more or less as “the richest thing that ever happened.” The cunning phrase had come to her by a side wind. Even if secretly it wounded her pride, she had a shrewd perception of its value.

That two-edged phrase was her open sesame, as Family was the open sesame of Lady Violet. The world in which she was now beginning to move with some freedom was willing to forgive much for the sake of Pop. Yet absolutely nothing was known at the Embassy about the mysterious Mr. Du Rance. Certain countrywomen of “little Miss Chicago” were indefatigable in their inquiries. But in the end all boiled down to the plain fact that Du Rance père was a homely farmer of hogs who, no doubt, had come into his kingdom rather late in life.

Meanwhile his daughter got about. Even the dance at Clanborough House, on the evening of the second of June, was graced by her presence. Dear Emily, who, as all the world knew, was apt to fuss over the invitations to share her well-considered hospitality, actually sent a card to the naïve little thing when people like the So-and-So’s, who had been established three years in Park Lane, had to go wanting.

One thing must be said for Miss Thingamy. She really was an excellent dancer. Anyhow, dear Violet’s brother, that nice young man in the Pinks, seemed to take as many turns with her as with that charming girl Gwendolen Childwick. She, too, was a partie. But of course, rather “heavy cake.” So that towards the end of a most enjoyable evening—dear Emily’s evenings were always so enjoyable—rumours began to arise of jealous riding. From the purely dancing point of view Miss What-was-her-name could put poor Gwendolen to bed any old time—could fairly tuck her up, as it were, in her little cot. Really no comparison between the two. Trade, of course, both. But who minds trade these days? Besides, Celebrated Three Ply Flannelette is so much more distinguished than Hogs.

That fearful accent, my dear. Quite the wrong kind of American. What a pity that since the War there has been such a lowering of European standards. Don’t you remember, my dear, when you and I first came over, what enormous trouble our parents took that we should do and say nothing to disgrace them? And even then it wasn’t altogether easy, was it? Sad, my dear, to see how things have changed. But as I took the opportunity of saying privately to dear Emily, if that type of American does really get off with an old marquisate there is bound to be a slump in the more respectable English titles.

XXXIV

“LITTLE Puss, of course you will not touch the Canary. But there are other birds on the bough.”

Lady Violet did not use these exact words, but that was Mame’s astute interpretation of the light in her eye and the smile on her face. What she did say was: “Your dancing last night with my brother was admired. People were asking who you were.” But more, far more, was implied by the point and the humour with which she made those statements.

It was the morning after the Clanborough House ball. Mame, at ease in an armchair after a late breakfast, had a pleasant feeling of success. She had passed a fairly stiff examination with flying colours. Her sponsor was proud of her. She had looked well, carried herself well, danced beautifully. Even Aunt Emily, who was so critical, had spoken of her “as an unaffected little thing.”