It was one British journalist to one American or vice versa: a bit of international courtesy. But to Mame it was more. There was a genuine ring of kindness, as pure a note of music as Mame had yet heard.
Her practical mind at once got busy. This might be a chance. Bluffer as this girl most likely was, there could yet be no harm in trying her out.
“Before I go back home,” said Mame, tentative as a kitten treading on ice; “I’d like an invite to some mansion of real class. I’d like to do a big wedding for my paper.”
“Do you mean this function next week at Clanborough House?” The girl was journalist enough to own a mind which could move with uncommon nimbleness.
“You’ve made it in one.” Quick in the uptake, this bird. Mame was moved to say so.
“My dear Watson, really quite simple.” The meerschaum holder received a Sherlock Holmes tilt. “George Rex and Consort are going to honour the occasion. You saw it in the Times this morning.”
Mame breathed hard. This girl was no slouch. A four-flusher, yet she might have strings to pull. And it would be one over on Paula Ling if a little hick from Cowbarn, Iowa, got playing around among the royalties; not to mention the Fleet Street gentleman who had said the only way she would get to Clanborough House would be as a hired girl. The insult still rankled.
“A dull affair!” The new friend butted pleasantly into a rather tense pause. “But I ought to have a card somewhere that may get you in, if you care to come.”
Mame’s heart seemed to miss a beat when the girl began a search for an invitation to the terribly beparagraphed wedding the following week at Clanborough House.
“Should be one here.” Calmly she produced the beautiful cigarette case. Something leapt in Mame’s throat as the entire contents of the case were toppled out on to the tablecloth. There were half a dozen cigarettes and twice that number of cards of various shapes and sizes.