There was not a hint of patronage in the old buck’s manner, yet in spite of his air of simple kindness, Mame somehow felt the King-of-England-with-his-beard-off feeling creeping upon her. He was the goods all right, this old john, but she was determined to take him in her stride as she would have taken President Harding or any other regular fellow.
“Won’t you tell me your name?”
Mame opened the small bag which she never parted with, even at meal times, and took out her card. The old man fixed his eyeglass and scanned it with prodigious solemnity. “Cowbarn.” A bland pause. “Now tell me, what state is that in? It’s very ignorant not to know,” he apologetically added.
“No, it ain’t.” Mame was captivated by the air of humility, although not sure that it was real. “Cowbarn’s in the state of Iowa. On’y a one-horse burg.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure, Iowa.” The grandee made play with his eyeglass. “I remember touring the Middle West with Henry Irving in ’89.”
So long was ’89 before Mame was born that she was a trifle vague upon the subject of Henry Irving. But she knew all about Lloyd George, Arthur, Earl of Balfour, and even Old Man Gladstone of an earlier day. She surmised that Henry was one of these.
“A senator, I guess?”
“My dear young lady, no.” The tone of surprise was comically tragic. “Henry Irving was the greatest ac-torr Eng-laand ever produced.”
“You don’t say!” The awe in Mame’s voice was an automatic concession to the awe in the voice of the speaker.
“Yes, Eng-laand’s greatest ac-torr.” There was a note of religious exaltation in the old grandee. “I toured the United States three times with Henry Irving.”