“I’d just love to do that.” There was no mistaking the note of gratitude.
“Come along, then. But we shall probably get nothing to eat. Hen clubs are hen clubs when it comes to fodder.”
“Anything in the way of a bone will fix me.” A blessed feeling of hope had begun to stir in Mame quite strongly again.
The evening being fine and lit by British summer-time which puts the clock back an hour, and as the club, by name the Ladies Imperium, was only a few doors beyond Hamilton Place, there seemed no reason why they should not walk.
Lady Violet said good-bye to her friends and several of them, including Bill and one or two of his brother officers, said good-bye to Miss Du Rance. And then these ladies strode off towards what the hostess prophesied would be the worst dinner in Europe.
Privately Mame doubted that. What she called the “worst” dinner and what Lady Violet called one were likely to come out of very different casseroles. A fortnight ago Miss Amethyst Du Rance might have argued the point, but in the past fourteen days a lot of water had flowed between the arches of London Bridge. She was not so certain of the things she knew and far more certain of the things she didn’t know. Anyhow, she was much less free with her opinions than she had been a fortnight ago.
They turned in at Albert Gate and took that pleasant path which the Metropolitan Force had managed to close against the wiser members of the public at nightfall. But night as yet had not fallen. None the less Miss Du Rance was stirred by certain memories. She kept a shrewd eye open for a certain dour-faced Scots constable.
There was not a sign of the young officer. Perhaps there was still a little too much light in the sky, away beyond the statue of Achilles. It might have been Mame’s idiom, her personal force, her gift of mimicry, but all the way from the park gates to the marble portico of the Ladies Imperium her friend was kept in a state of mirth. Even when they had emerged from the cloak room and made their way up the fine staircase as far as the salle à manger, the hostess of Miss Du Rance was still inclined to smile. She was great fun, this girl.
The Club’s most popular member had no difficulty in choosing a table for two, in a comfortable corner. As they sat down, she glanced at the menu. “You mustn’t expect terrapin and canvasback here, you know,” she said apologetically, handing the card to Mame.
Their first choice was plovers’ eggs, with cutlets and a charlotte russe to follow; a light and eupeptic meal. Miss Du Rance was offered a dry Sauterne to go with it. But the guest, in spite of agreeable memories of a recent “cup,” was by way of being a pussyfoot. That creed was good for the health, good for the purse, good for the moral nature. Yet having no wish to cast a blight on Lady Violet’s ardour, she saw no reason why her friend should not order something for herself.