Mame’s naïveté met with further reproof. “One only speaks, my child, of the wrong kind of American. The right kind is left to speak for itself. And the moment it speaks for itself it becomes the wrong kind—if I make myself clear?”
“You do and you don’t,” said the candid Mame. “But to come down to cases, I’ve got to keep my eyes skinned for the Childwick push.”
“Among others. They are not your friends, exactly. I don’t know why. And they have the ear of Aunt Emily, who, please don’t forget, as far as the funny old English village of Mayfair is concerned, is the nearest card you hold at the moment to the ace of trumps. You may pick up others later, but my advice is to hold on at present with both paws to Aunt Emily.”
Mame saw the force of that. “Do you think I ought to get a new dress for this party next month?”
“The heliotrope will do quite well. Gwympe has made it beautifully.”
“And only charged half price, as we are giving her that write-up. So I can blow myself off to another if you think I ought to have one.”
That was not at all necessary. It would be hard to improve on the heliotrope. But one further word of caution. Mame must be wise about Gwendolen. As far as Clanborough House was concerned she had it in her to be dangerous. “So, as I say,” the mentor concluded, “I hope you’ll be wise about her.”
“I will,” Mame faithfully promised.
“And don’t forget there are others.” The face of the mentor was full of mystic meaning.
“I won’t,” promised Mame.