Free Around the World With Auntie Mame by Patrick Dennis Page A

dazzling, in a stagey sort of way, in mauve lace and, to be as one again with the Queen of England, several dozen fox pelts dripping from various parts of her. Lady Gravell-Pitt’s costume had quite a lot of wrinkles and some indelible spots insufficiently covered with cameos.
    â€œWell,” I said, stepping out bravely, “you’re certainly all looking . . .” I couldn’t go on. I stood there frozen beneath the awe-stricken stares of Auntie Mame and Vera.
    Vera was the first to speak. “Jesus,” she said, simply and succinctly.
    â€œPatrick,” Auntie Mame gasped, “what
are
you got up as? If you think this is a joke, you’re . . .”
    â€œIt’s my new suit,” I said. “For the Garden Party. It just arrived.”
    â€œ
New?
” Vera said. “
I
should live so long. Why, it’s positively green with . . .”
    â€œReally, Hermione,” Auntie Mame said, “I
do
happen to know something about clothes, and this ridiculous getup is simply . . .”
    â€œIt’s what all the best-dressed men in London are wearing,” Hermione began, but even she wasn’t able to bluff it through. One look from Auntie Mame and Hermione’s statement trailed off and stopped with a dismal little click of her teeth.
    â€œIt’s surely just some sort of mistake,” Auntie Mame said. “Undoubtedly there’s been some mix-up and Patrick has received the wrong package. This bedraggled old rag is certainly not the sort of thing that anyone would pay a hundred guineas for.”
    â€œA hundred guineas!” Vera said and whistled.
    Lady Gravell-Pitt looked so crestfallen at being caught out in her shabby trick that I almost felt sorry for her. But she rallied and said, “Of cawss. It can all be straightened out tomorrow. But now we’d best be off. It wouldn’t do to keep Bertie and Bessie waiting.”
    â€œVery well,” Auntie Mame said. “Patrick, my little love, you’ll just have to make do, somehow. Perhaps no one will notice.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said dubiously. I put on my gray topper. It sank down to the bridge of my nose.
    The traffic in London has always been bad, but on that particular Garden Party day it was so heavy that it took the better part of an hour to travel the last two blocks to the gates of Buckingham Palace. Nor were matters improved when Ito nicked a very old Daimler limousine and crumpled the fender of the Peruvian Ambassador’s Packard. By the time we got there the temperature in the car was about ninety and the humidity was unbearable.
    Never having been to a Royal Garden Party before or since, I have no similar function with which to compare this. But the only difference I could see between the Royal Garden Party and a giant rally at Yankee Stadium is that Yankee Stadium has rest rooms and it’s easier to get refreshments. We got into the receiving line behind several hundred thousand overdressed people and began inching forward in a long serpentine queue toward the marquee where the Royal family received. An hour went by and we were still standing. Vera was the first to crack. “To hell with it,” she said, and went off to join some people she knew. In fact, it seemed to me that Vera knew a lot more people in Court circles than Lady Gravell-Pitt did. Every two or three minutes someone with a most impressive title would spot Vera standing on line and barge up to greet her, whereupon Vera would introduce us all around.
    Lady Gravell-Pitt, on the other hand, would just caw, “Oh, there’s the Marquess of Something or the Duchess of Somethingelse,” and wave frenetically, only to receive the blankest of stares. But Auntie Mame was too pleased to be there, and too happy chatting with Vera’s gay friends to notice.
    Another hour went by and we were not much closer to our goal. However, the sun had disappeared behind a cloud and there was quite a breeze.