It was the proudest moment life so far had given her. But she was equal to it. Now that she was fairly in at the deep end, the springs of being seemed automatically to tighten up. She was going to swim. And she was going to swim all the better for having so recently distrusted the power of her breast stroke and the freedom of her leg action.
The eyes of the world were upon the tortoise-shell folders. In Paula Wyse Ling’s opinion there was nothing like them. Paula was right as usual. Mame was conscious of the gaze of the Daily Lyre-consuming public growing rounder and rounder. She could almost hear the suckers asking, Which Little Nob Is This?
XVII
MAME’S progress to the awning was a triumph. Bobby after bobby passed her along. Once she was fairly under it and she felt the red carpet beneath her high-heeled shoes, of whose perils she was still aware, she bent her mind to the serious business of being Lady Clara de Vere.
Everything seemed to make that business easy. From admiring public and saluting cops in the street, to groom of the chambers, major domo, butlers, footmen and what not in the mansion itself, all were careful to see that she didn’t step out of the picture. Never in her life had she felt so exhilarated as she walked on very slowly towards the white marble staircase.
There was plenty of time to look at the Lawrences and the Romneys. She was the first guest to arrive. The others, who were evidently a most distinguished crowd, were all at the church. Except for the servants she seemed to have the whole place to herself.
If she had not had a good nerve those jolly old hirelings might have put one over on her. They were all male; very numerous, very starched, very stand-off; in fact, they were reeking with Class. She had not seen any hired men to compare with these.
The house was exactly like those fake interiors you see on the movies, except that this one was real. It might have been a royal palace. She had never been anywhere like it. As she walked alone and delicately up that wonderful staircase she could hardly believe in her surroundings. Equally hard to believe in herself. Mame Durrance must be dreaming.
In a sense she was dreaming. Halfway up the stairs she paused to drive home to herself that she was the Lady Clara de Vere and must behave “as sich.” The truth about her was that like so many of her countrywomen she had a remarkable faculty of seeing herself in pictures. She kept a mirror at the back of her brain. You glanced within and were able to adjust yourself to your environment. In the middle of those stairs the little hick from Cowbarn, Iowa, took a formal oath to be cool, to be collected, to watch her step, and, above all, to see that nobody called her bluff.
Everything so far was easy. There was not a soul on the stairs. But no, she was wrong. When she reached the head of them she came upon a rare old top in livery who bowed as they do in the theatre. He asked for her card. She handed it to him and he bayed out in a deep voice that went echoing all over the landing: “Miss Amethyst Du Rance.”