You are such a girl now, among your slick friends in London, and you are pulling such big stuff with your weekly columnising, that I daresay you have forgotten your obscure Cowbarn epoch, and the junk whose early chapters you had the honour (sic) of typing for your first and most distinguished (sic) editor, with which the boob filled in his spare hours. You used to tell him how good these opening chapters were and the boob used to believe you. The consequence is ... well, this is the consequence. By the way, it was clever you that invented the title, after we had shaken a leg—and you were always some dancer—at that dive at the top of Second Street, one wet afternoon.
Well, Mame, that title was lucky. Prairie City has made good. It has, if I may say it modestly, made quite surprisingly good. ’Tis hardly six weeks since it was first issued here by Allardyce, Inc., but already it’s gone big. Early next month their London house will publish it, and if it can repeat in England what it has done in New York, the undersigned Elmer Pell Dobree is a permanent whale. So go to it, Mame, you little go-getter. Corral the big drum and get around the comic town of your adoption—worse luck!—and see if for the sake of old times—good times they were, too, I’ll tell the world—you can’t put one over, in the name of an old friend, on the doggone Britisher.
P.S. When do we see you again here? As I’ve told you more than once, this continent is a poorer place for your absence. If you’ve left us for keeps it’s a great, great shame; and there’s one young man who won’t forgive you.
When, at a decidedly late hour, or, rather, an early one, Lady Violet returned from the festivities, she invaded Mame’s bedroom. She wanted to see if the child had come back and that she was all right. In spite of the excitements of the day her thoughts had been pretty constantly with her little friend. She was a good deal concerned about Mame. And now it was something of a relief to find her propped up in bed, simply devouring a book with a red cover.
It was so good to see a smile on a countenance which a few hours ago looked as if it would never smile again, that the intruder exclaimed, “Why, why, whatever have you there?”
“Elmer’s written a book.” A glow of excitement was in Mame’s tone and in her eyes. “It’s all about Cowbarn and the folks we used to know.”
“True to life, I hope.” Mame’s friend, gazing at her furtively, sought to read what lay behind that rather hectic air.
“Better than life ever was or ever will be. It just gets you feeling good. And it keeps you feeling good all the time.”
“He must be a clever man, your friend Elmer P.”
“Clever is not the name for Elmer.” Mame spoke excitedly. “A genius—that baby! All the Cowbarn folks are in it. I’m in it. And I’ll say he’s let me down light.”