“Shucks!” protested Mame. “Gerty can mug up a notice as slick as we can. If you tell her just what to say beforehand—uproarious welcome, speeches before the curtain and all the rest of the dope—New York’ll never know the difference.”
“I don’t quite agree.” Celimene’s voice had grown particularly calm and quiet.
Once before and once only had Mame heard that voice. On that occasion it was the prelude to trouble. She looked shrewdly at her mentor. And what she saw gave her pause.
The gay and laughing eyes had hardened. They were still gay and laughing, but behind them was an elusive something Mame did not like. Her keen perception had noted for some days past a subtle change in the manner of Bill’s sister. The thought had already crossed Mame’s mind that those prize cats had been getting at the friend to whom she owed so much.
“Davis will give you a hand with your packing.” The tone, light and gentle as it was, sounded absolutely final. “To-morrow morning we must catch the ten o’clock from Inverauchty.”
There was nothing to be done. Short of open defiance, to which Mame was sorely tempted, and yet was wise enough not to yield, no alternative was left.
Bill was bitterly disappointed when he heard the bad news. He had taken it for granted that Mame was staying on. But in his way he was a philosopher.
“I’ll be in London about ten days from now. And then—and then we’ll roll along to Cartier’s and choose a ring.”
Mame’s eyes shone. It was the tangible evidence of her triumph and of her happiness. Yes, there was magic in the air of Dunkeldie. Life might be a long round of daily disappointment, but back of everything was always the Big Stuff, if only one had the luck and the pluck to be able to pull it.
“Have you told Violet?” She was able to ask that serious question in spite of a tumultuous heart. There was reason to suppose that he had.