“Private view Black-and-white Exhibition, Burlington House.” Mame was seething with suspense, but the girl went calmly and leisurely through the cards. “Arts and Handicrafts Exhibition. Admit Bearer. British and Foreign Bible Society. Randal Cantuar in the Chair. Opening of Royal School of Cookery, New Wandsworth. Annual Meeting Dumb Friends’ League. Reception for Dr. Hyam Baines Pennefather, Baltimore Third Church, Hotel Cecil. No—yes—no. It almost looks as if we’ve drawn zero.”
Mame’s heart sank. It was no more than was to be expected of a tinhorn, but it would have been cracker-jack to have sailed into Clanborough House by the main entrance, along with the King and Queen and half the real doughnuts in the island.
She bit her lip with disappointment, yet at the back of her mind was the knowledge that these things did not happen. They were too good to be true. But the melancholy privilege still remained to one who aspired to close and accurate observation of the human comedy of seeing what the four-flusher would do next.
The girl coolly returned the contents to the lovely silk case. And then she said in that casual tone which Mame was now beginning to resent rather more than she admired: “Give me your address.”
Part of her bluff, of course. Still Mame saw no reason why her address should not be given. Truth to tell, she was just a little proud of it. Like many things in this queer city, it sounded better than it was. She promptly took from her bag a decidedly professional-looking reporter’s note-book, tore out a leaf, and then wrote carefully with an equally professional-looking fountain pen: Miss Amethyst Du Rance, Fotheringay House, Montacute Square, Bloomsbury.
“Thanks,” said the smart skirt. Then she gave a glance, cool and impassive, at what Mame had written; and, then, with a lurking smile, which Mame was quick to detect, she added this memento to the others which adorned her case.
“I’ll be glad of an invite for Clanborough House,” said Mame with irony.
“Right-o. You shall have one in the course of post.”
“I don’t think,” Mame confided mutely to the dregs of her teacup. And then she said with a demure mockery that was rooted in the heart’s bitterness, “I reckon you’ll be there.”
The answer was “Sure” in the way it is given in New York. Perhaps the high-flyer guessed that Mame was trying to call her bluff. Yet beyond a doubt she carried it off royally. “I suppose I’ll have to be.”