the smell of hot paper, feeling the thud of the presses, and seeing the sooty dome of St. Paul’s floating against the night sky.
She hardly thought of romance or love or marriage.
In fact, she was getting a peculiar insight into the pitfalls of love, romance, and marriage as anguished letter after anguished letter reached her desk.
But strangely enough no one ever tried to find out the identity of the now-famous Aunt Mabel. The little old lady with the spectacles still beamed out wisely from the top of the page.
No matter how much he imbibed in the hostelries of Fleet Street, Mr. Barton always referred carefully to Aunt Mabel as “a nice old girl.”
And then one day the axe fell—in the form of a crested letter. Much impressed, Miss Frimp passed it over to Sally to open personally.
Sally read it through twice and then said faintly, “I must consult Mr. Barton.”
That gentleman was happily engrossed in his latest exposé—“A Day in a London Slum”—when Sally walked in and handed him the letter silently.
He whistled between his teeth as he read.
It was more like a royal command than a letter. The Duchess of Dartware had written, requesting Aunt Mabel’s presence at a house party in a week’s time. The duchess said her son was about to become affianced to a
most
unsuitable young girl, and she wished to have Aunt Mabel’s advice.
Mr. Barton stared at it and then stopped whistling and looked up. “Well, you can’t go, Miss Blane. Aunt Mabel
must
remain anonymous. Tell you what. I’ll write to her nibs and tell her that you never go anywhere, but that if she supplies you with a few more details, you’ll
write
the advice. That should fix her.”
Sally sighed with relief and went back to bury herself in her work. But somewhere there was a nagging feeling of disappointment. It would have been marvelous to have been able to visit a ducal home… just once.
Mr. Barton sent the letter to the duchess, and the duchess replied by wire.
Stop waffling stop send Aunt Mabel stop if you do not send Aunt Mabel I shall call at your office in person stop so don’t be a silly twit stop
Mary Duchess of Dartware
Sally and Mr. Barton stared at each other over the wire in consternation.
“We’re sunk.” said Mr. Barton, clutching his head.
“I have it,” said Sally. “We’ll let her call here. Miss Frimp can pretend to be me.”
But Miss Frimp nearly fainted at the very idea. Normally a timid soul, she dug her heels in on this one occasion and refused to budge, which left them exactly where they were.
Mr. Barton scowled while Sally paced up and down the room. She stopped suddenly and stared at a theatrical poster on the wall, and a mischievous smile lit up her face.
“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.
“What?” cried Mr. Barton, who truly believed Sally to be omnipotent.
“I’ll hire a theatrical makeup artist,” said Sally. “A white wig, some spectacles with plain glass, and some rubber wrinkles, and—
voilà!
Aunt Mabel.”
“It’ll never work,” said Mr. Barton, but he looked longingly toward his unfinished article.
“Of course it will,” said Sally bracingly.
“Nothing to it! Two days with the old trout and I’ll be back.” She twitched the wire out of Mr. Barton’s unresisting fingers. “I’ll reply to this. Imagine! I’m going to be a duchess’s guest!”
Her hope and happiness buoyed her up all the way back to Bloomsbury, but there she met with a setback as her two older flatmates digested the news.
Miss Frimp, released from the social confines of the office where Sally was her boss, flatly stated that she thought the whole idea was “terribly dangerous.” Miss Fleming said gloomily that Sally was bound to be found out.
The three women were sitting drinking tea around the table of their sparsely furnished living room, which was devoid of the usual feminine knickknacks that one would expect three single ladies with good salaries to have.
But the fact was that all three
She hardly thought of romance or love or marriage.
In fact, she was getting a peculiar insight into the pitfalls of love, romance, and marriage as anguished letter after anguished letter reached her desk.
But strangely enough no one ever tried to find out the identity of the now-famous Aunt Mabel. The little old lady with the spectacles still beamed out wisely from the top of the page.
No matter how much he imbibed in the hostelries of Fleet Street, Mr. Barton always referred carefully to Aunt Mabel as “a nice old girl.”
And then one day the axe fell—in the form of a crested letter. Much impressed, Miss Frimp passed it over to Sally to open personally.
Sally read it through twice and then said faintly, “I must consult Mr. Barton.”
That gentleman was happily engrossed in his latest exposé—“A Day in a London Slum”—when Sally walked in and handed him the letter silently.
He whistled between his teeth as he read.
It was more like a royal command than a letter. The Duchess of Dartware had written, requesting Aunt Mabel’s presence at a house party in a week’s time. The duchess said her son was about to become affianced to a
most
unsuitable young girl, and she wished to have Aunt Mabel’s advice.
Mr. Barton stared at it and then stopped whistling and looked up. “Well, you can’t go, Miss Blane. Aunt Mabel
must
remain anonymous. Tell you what. I’ll write to her nibs and tell her that you never go anywhere, but that if she supplies you with a few more details, you’ll
write
the advice. That should fix her.”
Sally sighed with relief and went back to bury herself in her work. But somewhere there was a nagging feeling of disappointment. It would have been marvelous to have been able to visit a ducal home… just once.
Mr. Barton sent the letter to the duchess, and the duchess replied by wire.
Stop waffling stop send Aunt Mabel stop if you do not send Aunt Mabel I shall call at your office in person stop so don’t be a silly twit stop
Mary Duchess of Dartware
Sally and Mr. Barton stared at each other over the wire in consternation.
“We’re sunk.” said Mr. Barton, clutching his head.
“I have it,” said Sally. “We’ll let her call here. Miss Frimp can pretend to be me.”
But Miss Frimp nearly fainted at the very idea. Normally a timid soul, she dug her heels in on this one occasion and refused to budge, which left them exactly where they were.
Mr. Barton scowled while Sally paced up and down the room. She stopped suddenly and stared at a theatrical poster on the wall, and a mischievous smile lit up her face.
“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.
“What?” cried Mr. Barton, who truly believed Sally to be omnipotent.
“I’ll hire a theatrical makeup artist,” said Sally. “A white wig, some spectacles with plain glass, and some rubber wrinkles, and—
voilà!
Aunt Mabel.”
“It’ll never work,” said Mr. Barton, but he looked longingly toward his unfinished article.
“Of course it will,” said Sally bracingly.
“Nothing to it! Two days with the old trout and I’ll be back.” She twitched the wire out of Mr. Barton’s unresisting fingers. “I’ll reply to this. Imagine! I’m going to be a duchess’s guest!”
Her hope and happiness buoyed her up all the way back to Bloomsbury, but there she met with a setback as her two older flatmates digested the news.
Miss Frimp, released from the social confines of the office where Sally was her boss, flatly stated that she thought the whole idea was “terribly dangerous.” Miss Fleming said gloomily that Sally was bound to be found out.
The three women were sitting drinking tea around the table of their sparsely furnished living room, which was devoid of the usual feminine knickknacks that one would expect three single ladies with good salaries to have.
But the fact was that all three
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