“Not often. All marriages are so much alike they bore one.”
Mame’s expressive countenance showed that she could not imagine herself being bored by doing marriages. “I’d just love that.”
“Love what?” The girl tickled the ear of Fu Ching Wei with the meerschaum holder.
“I’d love to do the real class marriages for real class papers.”
The girl gave a shrug that Paula Wyse Ling would never have permitted herself. But natural elegance carried it off.
Was she still putting it over on her? Or was she just trying to cheek her? Not that it mattered. Even if she was a regular queen of bluffers, she was also by a long sight the most interesting creature Mame had yet found in London.
So far the girl had left to Mame the business of asking questions. But in spite of an air of nonchalance, which Mame rather admired, she was not above putting one or two questions of her own.
“Are you a writing person?” she said, offering Fu Ching Wei a little milk in a saucer.
“You said it.” Of all the reams Mame had written since trekking east hardly a line had found its way into print; but that did not prevent her taking pride in the fact that the pen was her vocation. She hesitated a moment. Then she opened her bag and produced a card.
By now she knew enough of the newspaper walks of Britain to doubt the worth of this bit of pasteboard. At first it had given her real pleasure to display it. But she had now reached the phase when she was not sure that her card was not where she got off.