When speech was possible between them, which was not until they were near the precincts of the Ritz, it was Mame who dared. “Elmer,” her voice was very soft, “I’m feeling pretty good about our book.” She said “our book.” “There’s not one word we’ll ever have to wish away. The folks aren’t saints, the folks aren’t, but there ain’t a line that’s mean. There’s nothing to make ’em sorry. Some of the stories you might have told you didn’t tell. Some of the things you might have said you didn’t say. Elmer, I’m feeling pretty good about that book.”
Elmer, too, was feeling pretty good. In fact so good was Elmer feeling, that for all he was fully launched in the realm of letters, he still couldn’t find a word. Not one word. But like all young men of force and originality he enjoyed a certain power of action. Quite suddenly, without premeditation, he put one over on Mame. In the dark shadow cast by the Ritz arcade, he kissed the little go-getter.
Mame was thrilled by the sheer audacity of the assault. But there was the authority of the book all the world was reading that the heart of woman is a queer thing; so she just didn’t mind at all. However, she did not speak again, until hand in hand they had convoyed each other past a line of pirates in the guise of taxi cabmen, whom the law allows to range themselves in a row opposite Devonshire House. Nay, she didn’t speak until they had passed the end of Half Moon Street, the other side of the road, and on by the railings of the Green Park.
It was when they halted to gaze at the bright windows of the Ladies Imperium that Mame’s soft voice was heard.
“That’s the hen club I belong to.”
Elmer was impressed.
“It’s the Chickest hen club in London.”
Elmer guessed it was.
“Cocks are not admitted. If they was,”—Mame said was, yet she knew perfectly well it wasn’t grammar,—“I’d take you right in and buy you a cocktail.”
This was a little too much for the author of Prairie City. Such un-American play upon words was the palpable fruit of mental stress, but in combination with the magic of the stars it was a little too much for Elmer P. Dobree.