Mr. Digby Judson gazed fixedly at Mame, stroking his exotic moustache in the process. “There are ladies and ladies. Frankly, Miss Du Rance, I can’t promise much success over that course. You see, in this country at the present time we are overstocked, even with the genuine article. We are as prolific of ladies in England as they are of rabbits in Australia. But what we want here is pep and that’s where you Americans have got the pull. It’s pep, Miss Du Rance, we are out for, and that, I take it, you are able to supply.”
Mame looked death at the editor. But she said nothing.
“If you’re wise you’ll give ladyism the go by. Better let me see if I can wangle this billet for you at Clanborough House. A rare chance, believe me, for a girl like yourself, to study our upper class from the inside. You’ll be lucky if you get another such opportunity. If you really give your mind to the job I feel sure you’ll do well.”
“No hired girling for me, I thank you,” Mame spoke in a level voice.
Mr. Digby Judson looked a trifle disappointed. “Well, think it over. But I am fully convinced of one thing.”
A down-and-out feeling upon her, Mame asked dully what the thing was.
“It’s the only terms on which you are ever likely to find yourself at Clanborough House or any other place of equal standing.”
Mame bit her lip to conceal her fury. The insult went deeper than any she had received in New York. As she bowed stiffly and turned to go she had a sudden thirst for Mr. Digby Judson’s blood.
She had reached the door, its clumsy knob was in her hand when she turned again, and said with a slow smile over-spreading a crimson face, “You’ll excuse me asking, won’t you, but do you mind telling me if it’s very difficult to train canaries to roost on your moustache?”