As Lady Violet said, it was when the minx sat down to the piano that she really got away with it. Her great song, which she had heard in one of the few successful New York revues that had not yet reached London, was called “I’m the Beautest Little Cutie in the Burg of Baltimore.” And she sang it with such conviction and spirit and drollery that “the folks” seemed never to tire of listening. The music was topping and the words had a swing; while Miss Du Rance’s rendering of this gem of humour was such that, had it not been for Pop’s dollars, his reputed heiress might have turned to “the halls” as a means of livelihood.
Indeed, Mame had the conviction of that within her in the Cowbarn days. She had quite a reputation at the homely parties and sing songs of that small town. And when Elmer P. had crystallised the local feeling in the words, “Mame Durrance is a kind of natural droll,” that lady had spent a whole fortnight gravely considering whether she could not make good in vaudeville.
It was gratifying to know that the early Cowbarn success could be repeated in the highlands of Scotland. To be sure, the audience was much more easily pleased. It appeared to consider her lightest word funny. Even her way of just sitting down to the piano and picking out the notes with one finger seemed to give some of them fits.
Strange to say, however, among an audience which was so sympathetic, were one or two who seemed to be left quite cold by “The Beautest Little Cutie” and that other Broadway gem, which became only slightly less popular, “How’s Tricks?” These critics belonged, oddly enough, to Miss Du Rance’s own sex, and still more oddly, considering the great and deserved reputation for humour of the American people, they belonged, or had once belonged, at least their forebears had, to that up-and-coming nation.
For instance, there was that Miss Childwick—Gwendolen she was called. If ever there was one, that was a hard girl. She seemed to have no use at all for the clever and lively Miss Du Rance. Indeed, Mame, whose power of ear was so acute, overheard her saying to a sister compatriot, Mrs. Prance Horton, a social leader who had been recently imported from over the water, “that privately she considered that style of singing rather vulgar.” And Mrs. Prance Horton, whose home town was Boston, quite agreed with her.
It was not so much what Miss Childwick said, it was the way she said it. She was always trying to put one over on Mame, or what came to the same thing, Mame thought she was. There was a certain amount of provocation, no doubt. All the world knew it was only a question of time for the fair Gwendolen’s engagement to Bill to be announced. Why it had not yet been made public and the day fixed, even Bill’s sister, who was so informed upon every subject, was at a loss to understand.
Towards the end of the first week Miss Childwick’s attitude to “the little American”—as though she were not American herself, dear soul!—grew so marked in Mame’s sight, that she felt it would not take much for her to begin seeing red. The airs of Miss Three Ply Flannelette grew so insufferable that Mame was inclined seriously to ask herself the question whether she ought to take them lying down.
Cet animal est très méchant. Quand on l’attaque, il se défend. Having regard to what happened the problem arises: Was it really necessary for Miss Du Rance to defend herself in the way that she did? Opinions may differ. Yet few will deny that only a little fool would have missed such a chance.
It was after a week of highland magic that Mame felt the fierce impact of poetry and romance. Hitherto in her twenty-two years of existence precious little of those elements had come her way. But life at Dunkeldie was so different from any she had known. This was a new kingdom. And in the heart of it was the queer thing that makes some guys ramp and rage with rapture and those more worldly shrug and smile and shake their polls.