Still, there was nothing to lose by shooting it upon this girl. It would be trying it, as it were, upon the dog. This smart skirt was the top of her class. No matter what she might be, she was just as full of style as she could hold. It would be worth while to note the effect of a rather doubtful talisman upon her.
She did not say so, nor did her manner betray the fact, but it was a sure thing that she had never heard of Cowbarn or its leading newspaper. But Mame liked the kind and friendly way she handed back the card with the remark: “You’re in journalism too, I see.”
No lugs. No frills. By her own account she was a he-one at the game. It had been Mame’s instinct to doubt that, but this tone of pleasant quietness, this we’re-all-friends-round-the-darned-old-inkpot style was something new. This bird who was dressed to the nines, and who behaved as if she just naturally owned London, seemed to be quite disarmed by the European Correspondent of the Cowbarn Independent.
Without getting gay or in any wise familiar, she became as chatty as if she and Mame had begun their young lives together at the same convent school. It was clear that Mame had aroused her interest. The questions she put were shrewd and the answers she received amused her.
Mame asked if she knew the States.
She got over there sometimes. “Great fun, the U. S., I always think. Don’t you?”
Mame had never found the land of her fathers great fun, but she had far too much pride in it to say so.
“The U. S. is so progressive.”
“You said it.”
The girl had a lot to say of America. And every word was well disposed, without any touch of condescension.