For the folks began to pour in now with a vengeance. Among the first arrivals was a bunch of Royalties. It was easy to tell these were the Real Cream, by the care with which they were herded into a distant corner of the room. Here they stood apart, surrounded by dames-in-waiting and sconce-bearers. From time to time some old grandee was brought up to speak to them. Almost the first of these was the old duchess with the Wellington nose whom Mame’s unknown friend had claimed for a godmother. She came up leaning on a black cane and was soon in deep conversation with a particularly upstanding dame whom Mame guessed by the look of her to be the Queen of England.
Democrat though Mame was proud to consider herself, she took an undemocratic interest in all that went on. The look of the Royalties and the detached way in which they bore themselves interested her enormously. But she was not able to give them undivided attention. From her point of view other important things were beginning to happen.
By now the folks were simply swarming up the stairs. There was a loud hum of voices; a mighty lot of hand-shaking; considerable laughter; and as a mob of guests began to percolate into the room and to circulate around the tables Mame was confronted with the difficult task of picking out those who were most worth while. Plutes were so thick on the ground that it called for more than her knowledge to say who were not worth while.
Suddenly her eye was caught by a braided morning coat which somehow had a remarkably familiar look. Where had she seen it? Which Prince was in that morning’s Daily Lyre? Why, to be sure, it was the young fellow Bill! Which Prince was Bill? A fascinating inquiry. Before it could be answered, so swiftly swirled this human vortex, the drama became immensely more complicated. For, coming in through the door, looking just as gay, just as cool, just as chic as ever, was her chance acquaintance of the Carlton who had turned out to be a fairy godmother.
Mame’s excitement mounted so oddly at the sight of this girl, whom she hardly expected to see again, that she had to restrain a shout of welcome. This dump, she reminded herself, was not the cafeteria on Second Street, Cowbarn, Iowa, but Clanborough House, Mayfair, London, England. In the words of the song the Colonel’s Lady and Judy O’Grady might be sisters under their skins, but if Miss Du Rance—the fool puss!—didn’t watch out, she would be tearing a large hole in the manners of Lady Clara de Vere.
Was the girl going to look towards her corner? Or was she not? It was no cert. The folks were still pouring in; royalties, senators, professional beauts. It was no snap. The girl, who was showing some fine teeth and chattering like a good one, seemed to have a word for them all.
These were anxious moments. It would be just too bad if Mame didn’t catch the eye of the unknown friend. The entire future might turn upon it. She must thank her for the invitation. And this time she must see that the fairy godmother did not get away without revealing who she was.
It began to seem, however, as if Mame would have to leave her nice, comfortable corner and go and chase her. Each moment the place was getting fuller; each moment more of the folks intervened between Mame and the quarry. The human tide surging around was slowly but surely carrying her the other way.
Mame did not want, all the same, to quit a post which so finely commanded the main doorway. But she must keep the unknown in the middle of her eye or she would lose her. However, Mame’s luck was in. The girl was hustled to the right of the big table, instead of to the left, as Mame had feared that she would be.
This made all the difference. She came back on her tracks. All kinds of whales were still hanging around her. But Mame could not help that. It was now or it was never. Still, the Lady Clara de Vere did not let a whoop or a coo-ee or anything in the nature of a view holloa. Preserving a ladylike calm, that would have had no success at Cowbarn, she waved her white-gloved hands and then clapped them together, one, two, three!