That sent Mamma away with a vexed rustle of three separate layers of
silk. The Prince walked after her, just far enough behind not to step on
her train (he isn't the kind of man who would ever tear a woman's dress,
though he might pull her reputation to pieces), and Maida, Mr.
Barrymore, Sir Ralph, and I were left together.

Both men had jumped up when Mamma rose, but they sat down again when she
had turned her back, the Chauffeulier (presumably) to finish his dinner,
Sir Ralph to keep me in countenance. But there was no more gaiety. My
douche of cold water had quenched Mr. Barrymore's Irish spirits, and
Maida was depressed. I was the "spoil-sport;" but I "stuck it out," as
Sir Ralph would have said, to the bitter end.

When we all streamed into the big hall there sat Mamma in a corner with
the Prince, instead of having gone up-stairs to nurse her headache. What
was worse, she was letting the man teach her to smoke a cigarette in
imitation of some Russian ladies in another corner. They were puffing
away as calmly as they breathed, because it was the same thing with
them; but Mamma was far from calm. She was flirting with all her might,
and feeling tremendously pretty and popular.

She didn't see me until I had stalked up behind her. "Mamma!" I said, in
a tone of freezing virtue. "Four years ago, you spanked me for that. And
if Papa were here now, what would _he_ do to you?"

She started as if a mouse had sprung at her--and Mamma is dreadfully
afraid of little innocent mice. Then she began to explain and apologize
as if she had been thirteen, and I--well, I'll _say_ twenty-nine.

I foresee that I am going to have trouble with Mamma.

PART III

TOLD BY THE COUNTESS

XV

A CHAPTER OF PITFALLS

A woman finds out a great many things about herself when she is
automobiling. Or is it automobiling that makes new qualities grow? I'm
not sure; but then I'm so different in many ways from what I used to be
that I hardly know myself any more.

Beechy would tell me that it's all owing to Madame Rose-Blanche of
Chicago; but it isn't really. She changed me on the outside; she
couldn't change my disposition--except that one is happier when one's
pretty than when one's a "trump," as the English ladies say.

But I used to hate being out-of-doors; it seemed such a waste of time.
And when poor Mr. Kidder was alive, I often thought that if I could be
free to do exactly as I liked for a month, I'd spend it lying