Mame’s countenance fell. She had been cherishing a hope that her clever friend would be able to wangle at least one week more. It was the good life; everything was going swimmingly; this was the first suggestion that it was about to end so soon.
“Won’t your Aunt Emily stand for us a bit longer?” Mame was inclined to question the fates.
“It isn’t altogether that. Aunt Emily would like us to stay on, but there’s bread and butter to consider, you know.”
Ruefully Mame supposed there was. Still the firm seemed to be carrying on pretty well at Dunkeldie. And their locum tenens, one Gerty Smith, was diligent and trustworthy.
“But aren’t we rather taking chances? There’s New York to think of now. It won’t do to be too much behind with our information.”
“We’re not so behind as all that. There’s nothing much doing in London, and what there is Gerty Smith can attend to. Seems to me an extra seven days here isn’t going to matter.”
Disappointment was in Mame’s tone and there was no attempt to conceal it. She had counted on another magic week. But Celimene was adamant.
“There’s that new play on Monday at the St. James’s, also one on Tuesday at the Shaftesbury.”
“Gerty can fix those.”
“Unfortunately they are both American pieces. And New York won’t like it if we don’t give of our best.”