Around the World With Auntie Mame by Patrick Dennis

centime, but she said, “Yais,” with icy grandeur.
    â€œYou will be released almost immediately, with no police record to blight your holiday among your friends the French. I have arranged for a limousine to take you out to the American Hospital at Neuilly. In an hour’s time I shall call poor Eunice and tell her that you met with a motor accident while borrowing my car and that you can be found in the hospital. That will account for your deplorable physical appearance. Patrick and I are leaving Paris tomorrow and no one need ever be the wiser.”
    â€œI—I can never th-thank you,” Mr. Babcock blubbered. I snickered. The sight of that self-righteous old bantam cock groveling before Auntie Mame was too much for me.
    â€œPlease don’t be too affected by this simple show of loving kindness, Patrick,” Auntie Mame said, patting my shoulder and giving me a sharp jab in the nape of the neck. “Life teaches us many lessons.
Many!
Ah, here comes the turnkey now to give you back your ill-earned freedom. Come, Mr. Babcock!”
    THE CROWD AT THE FOLIES-BERGÈRE HAD BEEN A good deal rougher on Mr. Babcock than I had suspected. His shoes and socks and a bit of underwear remained to him, but not much else. He made a ludicrous spectacle out on the street. The night had turned cool and he shivered helplessly.
    â€œYou may see me to my car, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said grandly. “Remember, this is the automobile you allegedly cracked up. A silver Panhard sedan. That’s how the car was traced to me and how I was the first to be notified. Get in, Vera, Patrick. And would you just hand me that lap robe, my little love? Thank you.”
    She turned to Mr. Babcock and hung the robe around him. “Here, Mr. Babcock,” she said, “this will help you cover your, um,
shame
. Your hired limousine is just behind.” She got into the car and started the motor. Mr. Babcock looked like a very small Sitting Bull draped as he was in Auntie Mame’s motor rug. I snickered again.
    â€œThen Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said, “all is forgiven. Forgiven . . . and . . .
forgotten
?”
    â€œOh, y-yes,” Mr. Babcock said, his teeth chattering. “But just one thing . . .”
    â€œYes, Mr. Babcock?” Auntie Mame said sweetly.
    â€œWh-what shall I do with your lap robe when I get to the hospital?”
    â€œ
Take it off!
” Auntie Mame shouted. With a roar the car raced up the silent street.

Auntie Mame in Court Circles
    â€œSO AFTER ALL THOSE MUSEUMS AND GALLERIES and the French National Theatre what did the old maniac do with you?” Pegeen asked.
    â€œWell,” I said glibly, “Auntie Mame felt that Paris was getting too hot for her. I mean even in the early spring there are some real scorchers there. Not so much the heat, it’s the . . .”
    â€œGo on,” Pegeen said.
    â€œWell, so we went to London.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œTo visit the Queen. Quite literally. Only it was a King and Queen then.”
    â€œCut the comedy.”
    â€œI mean it. What trouble could anyone possibly get into in a staid old town like London. Besides,” I added, “Auntie Mame has always moved in Court circles.”
    Unable to face the distraught mother, I went out to the pantry to step up my drink. The drink needed bolstering and so did I.
    LONDON was just getting over Mrs. Simpson and the Coronation when Mrs. Burnside and the entourage checked into a suite at Claridge’s. The entourage, by that time, consisted of Auntie Mame’s best friend, Vera Charles, First Lady of the American Theater, who had collected so much money from the Folies-Bergère for indignities suffered there that it was easier not to work at all that summer—and, of course, me.
    Auntie Mame had been to London many times before and knew quite a lot of people left over from the twenties. At that early age in history they had been called the