THINGS went from bad to worse between Mame and Miss Childwick. The Three Ply Lady had a clever and spiteful tongue under a proud reserve of manner, a discovery made by Miss Du Rance when quite by accident she overheard her small self being dissected by certain members of the house party.
“Violet will soon tire of her.”
Tire of whom? That was the question for Mame, as those significant words stole on her keen ears. This conversation followed an enjoyable al fresco luncheon on the hillside. The guns had gone on while the ladies rested a little from the heat of the day. Mame had got her back to a shady fir which concealed her effectively and was composing herself for a siesta when she caught those words proceeding from the bole of an adjacent tree.
“She reminds me of an opossum.” It was the aristocratic voice of Mrs. Prance Horton, whose first name was Gloria. “Don’t you know, one of those queer little animals who live in the gum trees of the South. They can be taught all sorts of monkey tricks, but are never really tame. It seems to me that dear Violet is teaching this opossum all sorts of tricks, but I don’t think she’ll be amused with her long.”
“Why don’t you?” That was the voice of Miss Childwick. It sounded interested and alert.
“A little too dangerous, my dear. Besides, dear Violet soon tires of her toys. Don’t you remember the young cubist she ran and the Russian pianiste and the Carmanian princess who turned out to be a well-known impropriety? She gives all her toys their heads, for a time, then she drops them and they are never heard of again.”
“But as this girl is so rich—”
“That is the point. Is she so rich? Nobody has heard of her father. Marcella Newsum doubts whether she has any money at all.”
“Violet says—”
“—she is the richest thing that ever happened. And knowing our Violet, that may mean one thing or it may mean another. But I am none the less convinced that if this Miss Thingamy, whoever she may be, is half as cute as she looks, she’ll lose no time in feathering her little nest.”