By luncheon time one fact shone clear. No matter what happened in the near future to Miss Amethyst Du Rance, her return to New York must be postponed indefinitely. Tinhorns like herself—to be rather painfully frank—had quite as good a chance in London as on Broadway or in the Bronx; and if the worst should happen, the final process of getting kicked around might seem less painful if applied by the boot of the alien. London was no cakewalk, New York wasn’t either; but in the light of recent experience she fancied that of the two cities London was the less likely to skin you. Even if these comic islanders knew a dud when they saw one, anything foreign seemed to inspire them with a sense of chivalry.
New York, on the other hand, did not reach out after a sense of chivalry towards the foreigner. Or towards small-town persons either. In New York you just had to pay your way or git.
Rather than surrender to the down-and-out feeling ever gaining upon her, she went in the afternoon to the pictures, to see her favourite “Mary and Doug.” Before setting out from Cowbarn into the great world she had hesitated over a profession. Vaudeville, newspapers, the movies: her choice had lain between the three. It seemed that she had chosen wrong. Instead of investing her legacy in cosmopolitan experience, which seemingly was of no particular use when it was obtained, she might have given her days and nights to dancing and singing, for which she believed herself to have something of a talent, although of course, like every talent, it needed cultivation; or still better, she might have gone to Hollywood, the Mecca of her kind, and made a first-hand study of the film.
No use, however, to consider the might have been. Her choice was made and it had turned out wrong. Every dollar of Aunt Lou’s legacy was nearly blown in. And there was precious little to show for it. But she would have to stick it now.
After the pictures, she went and did some window-gazing; and then she had a cup of tea at a Lyons café. She did not feel equal this evening to Fotheringay House. Insecurity was getting on her nerves; and those old stiffs were always trying to call her bluff in unsuspected ways. For instance, she had heard the high-pitched voice of the bishop’s niece, blaa-ing over the luncheon table that the name of Miss Du Rance did not appear to be in the Morning Post list of those present at Clanborough House.
It was rather late when Mame returned to Montacute Square. Bleak was the sky and she herself was feeling like thirty cents. The wind had veered suddenly to the northeast, its favourite quarter in England now that April was there; and it had a power of making you wish that you had chosen some other spot in which to enjoy the glad spring weather.
Mame was hating life as she turned into the Square and was admitted to Fotheringay House by the little maid Janet.
“No letters for me, I guess?” The perfunctoriness had a touch of despair.
“Yes, miss. One on the ’all stand.”
Mame passed swiftly on to the table in the hall. Sure enough, a letter. Typewritten address. Postmark New York. From Paula Ling no doubt. She had not had a line from Paula since landing in England. Nice of a go-getter like Paula, with whom time was money, to mail a few lines. Not ten minutes ago, Mame had feared, so black was her mood, that Paula Ling would soon be sharing the discard with Elmer P.