In point of fact Mame did happen to catch the eye of one little girl remarkably like herself of a few short months ago, who with her satchel containing heaven knew what secret ambitions, was on her way back to her work. She was a resolute and plucky bit of a thing, withal a little peaked and pale, a little tired and a little bored; and there was more than mere admiration in the glance which envisaged Mame, her clothes, and her escort. There was a wistful envy.
Yes, honey, thought Mame complacently, you do well to envy me. Just now I am the happiest girl in London. It all seems too good to be true. I feel sure there must be a catch in it somewhere. But the glow of feeling continued as far as the Park gates, where they turned in, and the day being wonderfully bright and mild, as it often is in England towards the middle of September, they sat on garden chairs for two solid hours at a point equi-distant between the Achilles Statue and Knightsbridge Barracks where the Pinks were now in residence.
Those two hours of prattling to Bill and of Bill prattling to her Mame never forgot. Her sense of everything seemed to grow richer and deeper. Wasn’t it Hamlet or some other wise guy who had put it over in the office calendar that heaven and earth held more things than he dreamed of? That was exactly how Mame felt now. She could hardly believe that she herself was she. Was this the little hick who a year ago had hardly been ten miles away from Cowbarn, Iowa, in all her young life? Was this the little mucker New York had laughed at? She was far too practical to believe in fairies, but she could not deny the feeling that a spell was at work.
Bill was charming to sit by and talk to. He made not the slightest pretence of being a highbrow. Out of doors was his special hobby; an easy-going sportsman was what he looked and that sure was what he was. They discussed the immediate future; wondered when and how and where they should tie the knot and so on. “I’ll nip along to the Button Club presently—the box with the windows we passed just now—and write a line to my mother. You haven’t met her yet, have you? She’s a great dear, she really is, even if she does live all the year round in Shropshire. I’ll tell her we want to get married as soon as we can. And as we are both quiet, homely sort of birds we sha’n’t want much in the way of a wedding.”
Mame was all in favour. No doubt some of the folks would want to be there. But the quieter the better. She was never one for display. And when Bill declared he would not mind how soon they were “spliced,” with this also she was in cordial agreement.
These were moments of real happiness. And yet, and yet, there was just one moment of swords. After they had sat a full two hours on the garden chairs, absorbed in the contemplation of each other and their future plans, they got up and made a move in the direction of tea. It could be purchased and consumed in an open-air enclosure thoughtfully provided by the London County Council. They were in the act of crossing the park’s central artery when Mame’s eye was caught by a gently gliding limousine. It was a wonderful dingus, the latest word, with chauffeur and footman whose liveries matched the peerless machine. Two ladies were seated inside. Both, however, appeared to be gazing ostentatiously in another direction.
“Say, look, honey. Gwendolen Childwick. Is that her Mommer?”
Bill’s answer was a rather amused but quite indifferent yes. “Mommer carries a bit of sail, I always think. Some of these Fifth Avenue queens do, they say.”
“Very rich, I suppose.” Mame had an odd fluttering of the nerves for which she couldn’t quite account.
“I forget how many millions of dollars. But something pretty tall.”