Instinctively Mame felt that she ought not to accept Lady Violet’s invitation. She would be getting into deeper water than she cared about. Delightful as the sun and the ripples were upon the waves, she was nothing like a strong enough swimmer at present to trust herself to that treacherous sea. Yet, alas, there was a second instinct, equally powerful, which recalled a favourite text in the office calendar: There is a Tide.
That fly-marked old calendar had a wonderful knack of turning out to be true. There was a Tide, not a doubt of it. And Mame Durrance was poised upon the top, but so precariously that if she didn’t watch out she would find herself in difficulties; for at present she had not learned to swim beyond a very few strokes. But she was there all right, on the crest of the wave. And somehow she felt the power rising within her to breast those waters. She would sure be the worst fool alive if now she went back on her chances.
XXIV
A WEEK passed. Miss Du Rance taxi’d again to Half Moon Street; this time with a brand new pair of dancing slippers gracing her small but lively feet. The paucity of her remaining dollars was beginning to alarm her now. No further word had come from New York. But whatever happened she was going to follow her luck.
She found Lady Violet seated before a typewriter, clucking away as if for dear life. This was a form of effort with which Mame was only too familiar.
“So sorry.” Lady Violet glanced up from her task. “Please excuse me five minutes. I’m all behind as usual. This weekly syndicate letter is such a bore. One tangled mass of detail.” She made a wry mouth. “Always leave it to the last moment. How can one find anything new to say about the high-class underwear at Peary’s and Hodnett’s Annual Spring Sale? Help yourself to a gasper. The box on the table. And that’s the new novel of Loti, by the side of it; the one with the paper cover. My review for the Courier has to be in to-morrow. Luckily one doesn’t have to say anything new about Loti, does one?”
Mame did not smoke and she did not read French. But when in Rome, had said Paula Ling; or was it the office calendar that had said it for her? She left the silver box alone but took up the latest work of Pierre Loti with the air of a connoisseur.
The book, however, did not claim much of her attention. She sat watching Lady Violet work. In the sight of an expert she was by no means skilful; it was rather pathetic to see her dabbing with one uncertain finger of each hand. She also lent an ear to Lady Violet’s stream of whimsical complaint and humorous apology. Plainly this journalistic egg was bored by her luck. That old syndicate of hers was surely worth good and regular money. If only—! But why indulge vain thoughts?
In ten minutes, or less, Lady Violet was through. She shovelled her copy, some twenty badly typed pages, into a large envelope; sealed and addressed it; then with a comic sigh of relief she picked up the meerschaum holder and had recourse to the silver box. “So sorry,” she apologized for the nth time. “But we are not expected at the Orient until five.”
She rang for Davis, that treasure among parlour maids, of whose old-family-retainer air Mame was a shade in awe, and set down as “sniffy.” To Davis the envelope was handed; she was told to send it at once to Fleet Street by district messenger. And she was asked to get a taxi.