“For the love of Pete go back and eat your buns,” said the elder sister. “I never heard so much noise since Poppa fell into the canal.”
At this sally each young flapper laughed a loud and merry ha-ha. Then, giving their manes a shake, they humorously retired to the next table, where with unabated violence they still continued to discuss the rules of the Beaver game, which had proved so demoralising to British flapperdom.
“I expect you have young sisters of your own.” This to Mame by way of apology.
Mame had no sisters of her own. But she responded to the friendliness. The more she saw of this new acquaintance the more she liked her. And the family episode in which she had just been involved showed her in such a happy light that Mame’s heart warmed.
She decided to take advantage of the moment by finding out who the unknown was. Their first meeting was still in her mind. At the Carlton she had seemed to claim so much for herself that Mame’s suspicions had been aroused. But she had so amply kept the promise she had made; and now this afternoon at this big show she seemed as much top-side as ever, that, without further delay, it became imperative for the mystery to be cleared up.
Mame took inspiration from another caviar sandwich. And then she said with the amusing directness that was so characteristic:
“I just love those sisters of yours. But who are you, anyway?”
The girl produced the cigarette case Mame had already had occasion to admire and neatly detached a visiting card. Handing it across the table she denoted the name in the centre. “The Marchioness of Kidderminster.” One finger brushed it lightly. “That’s my mother.”
“Gee!” breathed Mame softly. She was a hard-shell democrat, but she was rather impressed by what looked like a famous title.
Below the name of Mommer, in the right-hand corner of the card, was a string of lesser names, yet in their way quite as intriguing: Lady Mary Treherne, Lady Alice Treherne, Lady Violet Treherne.