All the same, there was no young woman in London society more genuinely popular. If she could be, and frequently was, mischievous in a subtle way, she had a knack of helping lame dogs over stiles. Providing she liked a person, and she sometimes liked them for the oddest reasons, such as the shape of their ears, or because their toes turned in, she would take quite a lot of trouble over them.
This afternoon the funny little American she had met at the Carlton ten days ago, and who now graced her “collection” as if she had been a scarce butterfly with rare and attractive markings, was sending up a rather pathetic social S. O. S. Miss Du Rance, who was really pretty if she wouldn’t “make up” and wear the wrong sort of clothes, had already let her in on the ground floor in the matter of confidences. The girl had, it seemed, ambitions, which she had precious little chance of being able to gratify.
Lady Violet, however, did not tell her so. She was much too good-hearted for that. From the first she had been attracted by the child. Something looked out of those good grey eyes. Already this new friend’s worldly wise brain was at work.
Mame was encouraged to prattle artlessly on. There was no display of vulgar curiosity; but in the most natural way Lady Violet probed the secrets of her past. The life on the farm, four miles from Cowbarn, Iowa; the burning of the midnight candle to fit herself for the larger life; the good Miss Jenkins; the secret study of stenography; the escape to the Independent office; the arrival of Aunt Lou’s legacy; the flight to New York; the police raid; the trip to Europe—warmed by sympathy, Mame told the story of her life. And as told in the vivid native idiom, which, to the dweller in another world, had all the charm of novelty, the story almost became an epic.
Yes, she was worth helping, this rather pathetic child. Lady Violet fixed on her again that masked look which had a strange power of seeing through the most complex people. But this little go-getter—her own priceless word—was not complex at all. She was perfectly easy to read. And yet so interesting. In fact she was something new.
Miss Du Rance had just told the story of her life, when a tall, slightly faded-looking woman of forty came into the room.
The first thing Mame noted about this lady was the way in which her hair was done. She must have a peach of a maid. It was turning a most becoming shade of grey; it was abundant and it had an air of great elegance. That indeed was the quality which dominated the lady herself; an air of great elegance. She was subdued in dress and in manner; she moved like some extremely dignified and well-nurtured cat; yet there was nothing about her of that passive hostility which caused Mame so actively to dislike the Tabbies of Fotheringay House.
Lady Violet addressed this rather formal yet most agreeable dame as Cousin Edith. “Let me introduce Miss Du Rance of Chicago,” she said to Cousin Edith with a pensive smile.
Mame returned vigorously Cousin Edith’s bow and then offered an equally vigorous hand. “Very pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said Mame cordially. Her democratic spirit was a little doubtful of the “ma’am” but she was using company manners, so it seemed all right.
“Of Chicago,” however, troubled her. “Cowbarn, Iowa.” She hastened with a frank smile to correct Lady Violet.