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Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
Multiple Choice. Choose the best answer.

1. To apply a style to one or more elements on a web page, configure a CSS

_____________.

a. group

b. id

c. class

d. None of the above

2. The box model consists of a content area surrounded by:

a. a border

b. padding, border, and margin

c. border and margin

d. spacing, border, and margin

3. The _______ is the area between the content and the border.

a. border

b. spacing

c. padding

d. none of the above

4. _________ flow displays the elements on the page in the order they appear in the

web page source code.

a. default

b. source code

c. browser

d. normal

Page 1
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank

5. Use ___________ positioning to slightly change the location of an element in relation

to where it would otherwise appear when rendered by a browser.

a. absolute

b. float

c. relative

d. display

6. The CSS to create the class called myfloat that floats to the right of the other page

content, has a 10px margin, and a solid border is:

a. .myfloat { float:right; margin:10px; border: 1px solid #000000; }

b. #myfloat { right:float: margin 10px; border: 1px solid #000000; }

c. .myfloat { float:right; 10px:margin; border: 1px solid #000000; }

d. .myfloat { float:right; margin:10px; border: on; }

7. The default value for the border property for an element is:

a. 1 pixel

b. 0 pixels

c. 3 pixels

d. 10 pixels

8. When using the box model, the _____ is always transparent.

a. border

b. content

c. spacing

d. margin

Page 2
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
9. Use an id to configure a style when:

a. the style could apply to more than one element on a page.

b. the style will apply to only one element on a page.

c. the style is used for all elements on a page.

d. None of the above

10. If an element is configured with ___________ the other content on the page will

appear to its left.

a. position:left;

b. position:relative;

c. float:left;

d. float:right;

11. Which of the following configures a margin for an element with the following values:

top margin 30 pixels, left margin 150 pixels, right margin 0 pixels, and bottom margin 0

pixels?

a. margin: 150px 20px 0 300px;

b. margin:top-30, left-150, right-0, bottom-0;

c. margin:30px 0 0 150px;

d. none of the above

12. Use the ________ property along with the left, right and/or top property to precisely

configure the position of an element.

a. position:absolute;

Page 3
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
b. position:relative;

c. position:float;

d. absolute:position;

13. Use the ________ or _______ property to clear a float.

a. float or clear

b. clear or overflow

c. position or clear

d. overflow or float

14. Choose the example below that configures a comment in CSS.

a. <! comment !>

b. // comment //

c. /* comment */

d. << comment >>

15. Choose the example below of a descendent selector that configures the anchor tags

with the nav element.

a. nav a

b..navigation a

c. #nav a

d. a nav

16. Select the example below that could be used to clear a right float.

a. clear: right;

Page 4
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
b. clear: left;

c. right: clear;

d. overflow: right;

17. Select the example below that configures a container to clear all floated elements

that are within the container.

a. clear: both;

b. overflow: all;

c. overflow: auto;

d. clear: all;

18. When configuring the background color of an element, the background color is

applied to both the content and ______ areas.

a. border

b. padding

c. margin

d. extra

19. Use the _______________ property to configure an image to use as a bullet point in

an unordered list.

a. bullet-image

b. image-style

c. list-style-image

d. bullet-style-image

Page 5
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
20. From the choices below select the correct order to code CSS pseudo-classes.

a. link, hover, visited, active

b. hover, link, active, visited

c. link, visited, hover, active

d. link, hover, active, visited

21. Set list-style-type to the value ___________ to hide the display of the list markers on

an ordered list.

a. none

b. hide

c. invisible

d. nodisplay

22. The _______ pseudo-class configures the styles that will apply when the mouse is

on a hyperlink.

a. hover

b. click

c. active

d. over

23. The _____ pseudo-class configures the appearance of the hyperlink before it is

clicked.

a. hover

b. link

c. hyperlink

d. active

Page 6
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
24. Choose the HTML5 element below that is used to configure an area on a

web page that can stand on its own and could potentially be syndicated.

a. div

b. section

c. article

d. aside

25. The ________ HTML5 element is used to contain tangential or supplemental

content.

a. header

b. main

c. aside

d. section

26. Choose the item below that is not an HTML5 element.

a. footer

b. figcaption

c. wrapper

d. article

27. Choose the example below of a descendant selector that configures the anchor tags

within the element assigned to an id named special.

a. #special a

b. .special a

c. a#special

Page 7
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
d. special#a

28. Use ___________ positioning to configure the location of an element to remain the

same and to not move even when the web page is scrolled within the browser viewport.

a. absolute

b. static

c. relative

d. fixed

Page 8
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
Answers.

1. c

2. b

3. c

4. d

5. c

6. a

7. b

8. d

9. b

10. d

11. c

12. a

13. b

14. c

15. a

16. a

17. c

18. b

19. c

20. c

21.a

22. a

23. b

24. c

25. c

Page 9
Web Development & Design Foundations with HTML5 & CSS3
Instructor Materials Chapter 6 Test Bank
26. c

27. a

28. d

Page 10
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the other.
“I’ve never heard him complain of any kind of illness,” she heard the
landlady say in a low voice. “He never gave one the slightest reason
to suspect there was anything wrong.”
“How long has he lived here?” the doctor asked.
“He has occupied this room for more than twenty years.”
“An actor, I think you said?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Falkland Vavasour, quite a celebrated actor.”
“I don’t seem to remember the name. No doubt he belongs to a
bygone generation.”
“He was a very distinguished man.”
“Where did he get his meals?”
“His meals?” The voice of the landlady grew a little vague. “Of late
years he always took his meals out.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“At one of his smart clubs in the West End, I believe.”
“Which one in particular did he frequent? Can you tell me?”
Mrs. Toogood, unfortunately, could not. But she understood that he
had been a member of several.
“Do I understand you to say, ma’am,” said the doctor, gently
releasing the hand of the old man, “that Mr. Falkland Vavasour never
took any food in this house?”
“When he came here first,” said the landlady, “he was usually in to
all his meals. Then he gave up having dinner in the evening because
of his digestion. After that he took to having his luncheon out. And
for the last year, for some reason or other—he was always a bit
faddy and peculiar in his ways—he used to go out for his breakfast.
But as he had been here so long and he was a sort of connexion of
my late husband’s—I don’t quite know what the relationship was but
my husband was always proud of him—I allowed him to keep on his
room.”
“It was duly paid for, I presume?”
“Always, punctually, until about three weeks ago. When he got
behind it seemed to trouble him a good deal, but I told him not to
worry.”
“Well, I am sorry to have to tell you that there will have to be a post
mortem. Mr. Falkland Vavasour has all the appearance of having died
of starvation.”
Mame waited to hear no more. She was deeply grieved. And she
was rather shocked. Yet she was not so shocked as she would have
been had not her swift mind leaped forward to the doctor’s verdict,
even before the worthy man had arrived to give it. Yes, the grisly
truth was plain for any who had eyes to see. Grand seigneur to the
end, too proud to eat a crust he could not pay for, his only means of
livelihood vanished long ago, he had passed out as he had lived, a
prince among four-flushers.
Upstairs, in the privacy of her dismal room, Mame wept. Something
had gone from Fotheringay House, something that could never
return. Among all the millions of people seething around, this dear
old man had been her only friend.
Shivering on the edge of her bed in that chill attic, she felt horribly
lonely now. Nostalgia came upon her, a longing for home. She did
not understand these people. A powerful craving for the hearty,
simple folks she knew and loved crept over her while she fought to
control her tears.
 X
SUCH havoc had been played in a short time with Mame’s cash
balance by the life of London, England, that already the margin of
safety was nearly reached. By the end of that week—it was Tuesday
now—she would be compelled to take a bus to Cockspur Street and
see about a passage home.
The thought was not pleasant. A second failure, if hardly so painful
as the one in New York, was even more dire. For by the time she
looked again on the Statue of Liberty very nearly all the munitions of
war would have vanished. And what would remain to show?
Mame needed all her grit to bear up. The tragic end of Mr. Falkland
Vavasour was the writing on the wall. Did it not prove how fatally
easy it was for people, even of a certain position, to fall out of the
ranks?
The clouds were gathering. Since landing in England she had not
earned a dime. She had called on many editors and found them
inaccessible; she had mailed them her stuff; but there was nothing
doing. Her style was not what they were used to; and this nation of
snails prided itself on being conservative. But the worst blow of all
was the silence of Elmer P. Dobree.
Swift time flowed on. But the much-looked-for envelope, bearing the
magic postmark “Cowbarn, Iowa,” did not come. Friday by Friday,
with the super-optimism her high-spirited countrywomen have
elevated to a religion, the dauntless Mame mailed two columns to
the editor of the Cowbarn Independent. Each week as she registered
the packet and slipped the chit into her handbag she was as sure
that Elmer P. would fall as she was convinced she could turn off that
sort of junk until the cows came home. The stuff was good. Even a
simp with half an eye could see that. Not highbrow, but better; the
newspapers wanted things homely and plain. And there was any
amount of pep in it. Every word was hot from the mint of
experience.
All the same the weeks went and not so much as a line of
acknowledgment came from the man on whose friendship she had
counted. This silence was mysterious and exasperating. However,
she would not let herself be cast down. She went freely about this
comic town of London. There was more to it than at first she had
supposed. Her first impression had been of a slower New York; a
New York with a certain amount of moss on it. But when she had
spent a few weeks noting and recording the ways of this queer burg,
she began to see that it had its own standards, its own way of doing
things and that it would repay study.
She had really come to Europe to improve her knowledge of the
world. Once properly grounded in what to Mame’s mind was the first
of all sciences, she would return to New York, that city of four-
flushers which had mocked and derided her, with the ace of trumps
concealed up a fashionable sleeve.
To this end she must get around; and, if she could, contrive to see
the life of London from the inside. Among such self-contained and
stand-off folks this was not easy. That was why she had stayed on at
Fotheringay House. It was the best address she could afford. Nay, as
things went with her, it was a better address than she could afford.
But its portentous air of propriety was worth paying for. New York
had taught her that propriety, an elusive soulless thing, was
indispensable for a girl who had to play a lone hand.
She was living far beyond her means, but she managed to see just a
little of smart restaurants at luncheon and at tea time. Picture
galleries bored her, but she conscientiously did them. Culture was
always worth while; another card to keep up your sleeve. At
concerts and theatres she occupied a cheap seat; she saw all the
sights of the town. And now, at a tragic moment, came the
knowledge that she must pack up and go home.
Moving about the streets, she felt this day to be the worst she had
yet known. Even the humiliation put on her by the New York police
had not yielded a sensation of being so truly up against it. Not a
chance did there seem of making good. She would give herself till
Saturday and then arrange to quit.
For the first time since her arrival in London she perceived a touch of
spring in the air. Emboldened, she climbed on to the roof of Bus 56
and let it take her where it would. The line of route was along the
Embankment, past the Houses of Parliament, across Westminster
Bridge. Old Father Thames was lovely this morning, with a hint of
blue sky furtively peeping through soft grey mist.
As Mame looked back and saw the line of great hotels towering up
and dominating the river with their haughty façades, never to her
had they appeared so aloof, so magnetic, so inaccessible. Her desire
had been to storm those cosmopolitan portals, but moving now
towards the humbler purlieus of the southeast, she could not help
reflecting bitterly how ill-founded was that ambition.
Still she was a fighter. The trick was in her blood. And never had the
sense of her inheritance been more insurgent than on the top of Bus
56 this rare March morning, when for Mame Durrance the bottom
seemed out of things. She could not bear the thought of giving in.
Memories of great-uncle Nel rose in her heart. She could remember
that fine old warrior having said that when things looked blackest for
the Union in the Civil War, his chief, the famous General Sherman,
had declared, “If only we can stick it the clouds will lift.”
These words, of late, had been much with her. Since she had started
out to see the world and had known what it was to lie worried,
sleepless, heavy eyed, in an airless attic, she had often recalled just
how great-uncle Nel turned a thin but strong cigar over in his teeth
as he made his contribution to history.
Yes, all came back to the power of sticking it. As Bus 56 trundled on,
Mame kept repeating to herself that memorable phrase. If only she
could stick it! That odd faculty was the measure of her worth, as it
had been that of folks whose shoes she was not fit to tie.
 XI
AS luck would have it, Bus 56 came at last to a stop opposite a
cinema in Camberwell Green. The posters outside were featuring the
fratricidal conflict in which great-uncle Nel had borne a part. Indeed,
there was a certain quaint old-timer who had a poster all to himself
immediately under the booking office window who was General
Sherman’s colleague to the very life. At the sight of this warrior
something thrilled in Mame. She was not superstitious and she
always made a point of believing as little as possible of what one
had no means of proving; but that picture went some way to
convince her that at this moment the occult was putting one over on
her.
Promptly she got off the bus and made for the booking office. But a
notice under the window said it was not open until two o’clock and
that the show did not begin until half an hour later. As yet it was
barely one o’clock, so there was nothing for it but to kill the time.
Mame took a walk up Denmark Hill. It was not a very inspiring
altitude. Nor did a glass of milk and a bath bun at a dairyman’s near
the tram terminus at East Dulwich station do much to raise her
spirits. Never had she felt so intensely that she was nearing a crisis.
Back again at Camberwell Green she entered the cinema just as the
orchestra was tuning up. It was an orchestra of two, a fiddle and a
piano, and it seemed to add to her depression. Out of deference to
the film, which was entitled “Scenes from the Great Civil War,” the
fiddle and the piano discoursed those melodies with which Mame’s
childhood had been most familiar.
They began with “Suwanee River” and kindred themes of de ole
plantation and went on to “John Brown’s Body” and “The Battle
Hymn of the Republic.” Mame soon wished that she had stayed
outside. With all respect to great-uncle Nel she was not in a mood to
enjoy this réchauffé of her youth. For she could not forget that her
youth had been hard and unhappy.
In the first place she had never known a mother’s love. At her birth
her father had been left a widower. But when Mame, an only child,
was five years old, he married a hard-natured, unsympathetic
woman. Good had come, indirectly, of the stepmother’s rule. It had
not made for joy; but those years had fanned a secret flame in
Mame’s ambitious heart. Resentment took the form of a passion for
self-improvement. With the help of the village schoolmarm, kindly
Miss Jenkins, she studied so hard in the hours when minds less
nimble were asleep, that on her eighteenth birthday she was able to
fill a vacant stool in the Independent office. And on that red-letter
day, life for Mame Durrance began.
The opening scenes of the film brought back the past vividly. A
hundred details, half-forgotten, reminded her of the farm four miles
from Cowbarn, where she had been brought up. She saw again, in
the types thrown on the screen, the dour, lean, Middle Western
farmer, her father. The sight of him was an intolerably painful
memory. An embittered, unsuccessful man, who in his later days had
often drunk more whiskey than was good for him, in Mame’s
recollection, he had never been happy in his work or in his home. He
had been years in his grave, yet time, the healer, did not allow his
daughter to feel affection for him. Still perhaps she had a little pity.
He was one of life’s miss-fires. Groping along from year to year in
the old rut, without vision, without initiative, a weak man rather than
a bad one, his sins mainly were the sins of omission. And the worst
of them, in the eyes of his child who had paid for it, was that he had
not been man enough to stand up to the selfish vixen he had taken
for his second wife.
It was no use pretending that the film’s poignant reminders of her
childhood were pleasant. The discomfort, the toil, the loneliness, all
came back to her. How had it been possible for a creature like
herself, with only a half-educated village dame to help her, to get
away from it all? That was the question now in her mind. And the
emotion aroused by these familiar scenes had little enough to do
with the heroic figure of her real mother’s Uncle Nel, although the
fine type to which he belonged was also there. Uppermost in Mame
were disgust and pity. But she had escaped. By some miracle she
had escaped. And no matter what happened to her now, she knew
that she could never go back to the drudgery and the boredom of
the place whence she came.
Memories of the past grew too painful to bear. Mame did not wait for
the battle pieces. Even great-uncle Nel’s General Sherman, who had
a picture all to himself, and the soldierly groups, in any one of whom
might be the rare old man she remembered so clearly, had not the
power to stay the panic rising in her heart. It was weak, this sense
of tumult; it was foolish and worse than foolish, it was cowardly; but
quite suddenly Mame cast all thought from her of great-uncle Nel.
She got up and fled from the cinema.
Outside, amid the dismal waste of bricks and mortar, which ironically
called itself Camberwell Green, a rather frosty March sun was
waning. Mame stood a few moments under the awning of the
cinema in a state of irresolution, not knowing what to do next. It
was as if she had become hypnotised by a sense of life’s vastness
and complexity. The world was far beyond all calculation; yet now
she felt just the meanest thing in it.
However, she caught sight of Bus 56, wheeling round to the opposite
kerb. It was about to return to Charing Cross. Mame lost no time in
climbing to a seat on the roof. Bus 56, at that moment, was the one
thing in her life that held the core and semblance of reality. All the
rest was chaos and old night. But this prosaic vehicle meant
something. Panic-stricken as Mame now was, it stood for will,
volition, force.
Yes, she was panic-stricken. It was very absurd. In the most illogical
and unexpected way, a subtle demon had sprung upon her for the
second time. The first had been in that epic moment when she had
driven in a cab to the police office in New York with the horrid
Detective Addelsee sitting by her side. But on that occasion there
had been some excuse for this feeling of dull and helpless terror. On
the present occasion there was none.
The shrewd air of the bus top revived her a bit. Her fighting spirit
began to rally. If once it deserted her she was done. Why this attack
of cold feet? There was nothing to be afraid of. She still had money
enough to get home. It would not be the Iowa farmhouse to which
she knew now she could never return. Home, for her, must be one
of the big and friendly cities of that republic of which she was proud
to be a daughter.
Big indeed were those cities. But were they so very friendly? Mame
had begun to ask herself that by the time Bus 56 had reached the
Elephant and Castle. Frankly, in her experience of them, they were
not. To a little hick, as raw as herself, New York, for example, had
been quite the reverse. Apart from Aunt Lou’s dollars, it had no use
for her. It had swallowed nine hundred of those dollars and lodged
her in jail before you could say knife. No, friendly was not quite the
word for New York.
Still, in this bleakly inhospitable island, which was gulping her dollars
just as quickly, even if it had refrained from putting her in jail, it
would not do to knock New York. It was where she belonged.
America had treated her pretty rough but it was the land she loved
and admired. She might hate her stepmother and deplore her father,
yet after all it was the home of her mother’s memory. No, in spite of
failures and bad breaks, it would not do to knock little old New York.
This sentiment, which she knew to be no more logical than the
others, was so vividly upon her by the time she left the bus at
Charing Cross, that she crossed at once to the office of the shipping
company in Cockspur Street. If a boat, by which she could afford to
travel, was leaving at the end of the week, she would book a
passage. Better say good-bye to London a week too soon, than stay
a week too long and find yourself stranded.
When, however, she reached the offices of the shipping company
she felt bound to pause before she went in. Was it wise to act so
precipitately? Why surrender to wild impulses? It was a big decision
to make on the spur of the moment. What she did now could not be
undone later. She had figured on staying another week in London.
Every day’s experience was valuable. Any day she might hear from
Elmer Dobree, telling her that her stuff was O.K., asking for more,
enforcing his demands with a cheque.
Unreasoningly as her cinema panic, an odd wave of optimism flowed
over Mame as she stood gazing into the shipping company’s window.
She had always yielded to this recurring wave that seemed to spring
from her higher nature. Had she not done so from the beginning she
would still be eating out her heart on her father’s farm. What could
have seemed more hopeless than for Mame Durrance to thirst after
Culture? Yet that craving, in the end, had taken her to the county
town, to the office of the Independent. And this simple faith in the
future had carried her to New York and finally three thousand miles
across the Atlantic as far as Europe. Was this the hour to go back on
the urge of nature?
“If only you can stick it, the clouds will lift.” She didn’t know where
the voice came from, but those familiar words sounded clear as a
bell. Yes, she must stick it. That was what life was for: to keep a stiff
upper lip; to face your luck; to go down fighting.
While she stood gazing at a model of a Cunarder in the window of
the shipping company, she was quickened by new power. Whence it
came there was no means of knowing; but just behind her was
Trafalgar Square, and the lions, and the mighty column a grateful
nation had raised to the memory of a Nelson even more remarkable
than the brother of her grandmother. Sure, it must have been from
the top of that monument the thought wave had come.
She appeared to be borne on the wings of inspiration. The time was
not yet to give in. She would stay another week. But an effort of the
will was needed to leave that too-enticing window. She crossed the
road as leisurely as the taxis and the buses would permit; yet brain
and heart were in conflict as she entered Pall Mall.
Outside the Carlton she paused. A line of smart cars was disgorging
brilliant occupants. Mame stood wistfully in the shadow of the
portico, observing, as she had done so many times in the last seven
months, the life of ease, luxury and wealth from the outside. She felt
like a peri at the gates of Paradise. If once she could gain a footing
within those charméd portals, the capacity was surely hers to enjoy
their delights.
This evening her thoughts seemed to make her desperate. Never
had the spirit of adventure burned so high. It was her duty to count
every dime, but this day, take it altogether, was the worst she had
met since landing in England. She was fed to the teeth with
disappointment and the sense of just being out of things. There had
been too much cold shoulder. But there was money still in her purse.
Before she realized what she was doing, she was mingling with the
smart mob and passing through the revolving doors. As the delicate
strains of an orchestra caught her ear, her little head went up and
she began to move more freely. She considered herself to be very
well dressed, if a little “tossed” from a series of rides on the roof of
divers plebeian buses. Even if she was down on her luck she was
free, white and twenty-one. And she could pay her shot; therefore
she had a right to show her nose among the plutes.
The large room, on whose threshold Mame found herself, without
quite knowing how she got there, seemed to be full already. Very
distinguished-looking females and equally distinguished-looking
males were standing around, in twos and threes. They were
scanning, as it were, the far horizon for vacant tables.
Vacant tables, however, there were none. It was the hour when the
theatre matinées yield up their tea-thirsty patrons. Standing room
only appeared to be the order of the moment. And truth to tell,
Mame did not feel altogether displeased. If she found a seat at one
of those seductive little tables, it would mean half a crown at the
very least. And in the present state of Wall Street half a crown was
money.
This was pusillanimity. She was out for adventure. And she really
wanted tea. Something in the much-abused British climate seems to
call for tea at five o’clock. Therefore Mame’s slim little body began to
insinuate itself nearer the cups and saucers and the elegant
confectionery; whereas bodies less slim and not so little remained
outside the sphere of their influence.
Gazing around on the crowded scene, Mame awoke to the fact that
an extremely smart-looking girl, seated alone some two tables off,
and smoking a cigarette in a long meerschaum holder, had fixed a
demure eye upon her. Some little time it had been there, but Mame
did not know that. Every detail was taken in already by a glance
candid yet wary. Clothes, hat, eyes, chin, the face of wistful emotion:
Mame was a rare butterfly with quaint markings, a new specimen for
the net of a collector. Suddenly the girl’s eye caught Mame’s. She
coolly signalled with the meerschaum holder that there was room at
her table.
As Mame moved towards it she was ready to believe, such was this
smart girl’s easy air, that she had been mistaken for one of her
friends. Mame felt that she must bear a likeness to somebody else.
But no, this was not the case. The girl at once began to treat her
choice “find” with the off-hand courtesy which seemed to be her
attitude towards the world at large.
She lifted a muff, a real sable affair, from a seat near by in order to
free a chair. As Mame subsided into it with her politest thanks, the
girl looked at her shrewdly and then said in a casual voice, “You
want a waiter.”
Before Mame could take steps to get a waiter, her new friend, who
was full of cheery competence, had attracted one. Her manner of
doing so was in nowise aggressive, yet it was quite successful. The
last word in waiters, all smiles and all ears, soon materialised at
Mame’s elbows.
“I can recommend the crumpets. They’re very good to-day.” The girl
followed her genial information with something in Italian or French
to the waiter which Mame did not understand. It was probably
Italian, for the waiter was an undoubted Wop. He crisply brushed
the tablecloth with his napkin, arranged cup and saucer, knife and
plate upon it, and then went smilingly off to execute Mame’s order.
“Some folks around,” said Mame conversationally.
“A regular beehive.” The girl had a slow, deep smile which at the
sound of Mame’s voice began to grow.
“All the old-timers, I’ll say, from way back.”
At that remark the girl laughed outright, but in a way that was
friendly. Mame felt encouraged to let her tongue run.
“Say, listen, who is the dame with the auburn wig and the Roman
nose?”
“Ah, you mean the old dreadnought.” The meerschaum holder
tactfully indicated the next table but one where the personage in
question sat in state. “Eighty-five if an hour. Blind as a bat, deaf as a
mole, but worth looking at, I always think.”
Mame’s laugh chimed with the girl’s. The old dreadnought, in a
Victorian bonnet and mantle, with a nose standing off from a craggy
face like a handle from a door, was a type. Mame was so much
interested that she repeated her question.
“Old Duchess Hattie,” said the girl lightly. “Everybody in England
knows her. Among other things she’s my godmother.”
“Oh!” said Mame. Warily and at once she withdrew her gaze from
the ancient duchess to this new friend who claimed her for a
godmother. Involuntarily her fingers clutched her vanity bag to make
sure it was still on her wrist. London as well as New York had its
four-flushers. Mame looked at the girl opposite with a new curiosity.
Was she the real thing? Or was she merely putting one over on an
obvious simp? Certainly she was smart. And if not exactly a looker,
she had heaps of style. Besides she had these high-grade waiters
feeding from the hand. The Wop had already interrupted these deep
reflections with Bohea in a china pot and crumpets fairly sizzling in
butter.
Followed more conversation in Italian. The girl then fitted an
eyeglass, very neat and inconspicuous, into her right eye and
glanced at the programme of music. “Don’t you think we might have
the Rosencavalier instead of this thing of Massenet’s for number
seven?” She looked at Mame. But Mame, out of her depth, merely
looked at the waiter. “Yes, I think so.” The girl provided the answer
for herself. “Give my compliments to M’sieu.” She turned quietly to
the Wop as if she owned him and continued her speech in Italian.
Virgilio bowed gracefully and made his way up the room towards the
band.
Mame, under cover of a bold attack on a crumpet, furtively watched
her new friend. She was puzzled and fascinated by her. This bird was
something new. Her clothes were of the best yet they were not
startling. Even her eyeglass and her meerschaum cigarette holder,
remarkable in anyone else, did not seem out of the picture. Her talk
was lively and clever; her attitude towards that world which ordinary
people only read about in the newspapers was one of an amused
familiarity; yet her manners were neither boastful nor loud. If four-
flusher she was, and Mame felt she must be, it was a more subtle
breed than any which had crossed her path up to now.
For the pleasure of drawing the girl out and perhaps in the hope that
she would give herself away in a handful large enough to set all
doubts at rest, Mame tentatively said over the edge of a teacup,
while marking the new acquaintance very closely indeed: “I s’pose
you know all the folks.”
“More or less.”
Somehow it was not the answer Mame expected. A real four-flusher
would have posed a bit in making it. She would have struck
something of an attitude, and tried to look like an oil painting of a
First Family. But this girl didn’t. Paula Wyse Ling, who had spent two
whole years studying European society and was now beginning to
get her stuff into some of the best journals in America, would never
have answered such a question in that casual style. Paula would
have preened her feathers and with her voice right up would have
looked down her long nose and said: “Oh, yes, I have had the
privilege of meeting some quite good people.”
Suddenly Mame’s eye lit on one other appurtenance of this new
friend which hitherto had escaped it. Peeping in the oddest way out
of a fashionable sleeve was the tiniest imaginable Pekingese. The
sight of the quaint creature was so unexpected and its air of
dignified aloofness so entirely charming that Mame could not repress
her delight.
“Ain’t he just cute!” She proceeded to offer sugar.
The small beast gazed haughtily at Mame. And then disdaining the
sugar in a most aloof manner, retired at least six inches further into
the sleeve of his mistress.
“Rather nice, isn’t he? But always apt to be stiff and formal unless
he feels he’s been properly introduced. You see he’s a Chinese
emperor’s sleeve-dog and his pedigree goes right back with a click to
the First Ming Dynasty.”
“What’s his name?” asked Mame partly for the sake of conversation,
partly to show that she was impressed.
“Fu Ching Wei. He was given me by the Emperor of Manchuria when
I attended his coronation last year at Mukden.”
In the opinion of Mame this was overdoing it. This girl was certainly
trying to put one over on her. And Mame had already come to like
her so much, although to be sure she had only known her five
minutes, that she felt sorry. If one must pull that sort of guff, one
might at least take pains and do it with art. Among “all the folks”
whom Mame had supposed this girl knew, emperors had not been
included.
 XII
“YOU ain’t a newspaper girl, I’ll say?” Mame opened cautiously.
“Yes.” The new acquaintance replenished casually the meerschaum
holder.
She wrote for the papers. It was by way of being a solution of the
mystery. What these Britishers called a journalist. But a four-flusher
all the same. Yet Mame could not help liking her. There was
something so forthcoming, something so unstudied. She was so
much more natural than Paula Ling. You felt with Paula that if you
knew her a hundred years she would never let you catch her with
her hair down or without her pinko. But this girl was different.
“What journals you write for?”
“For a syndicate mostly.”
“A syndicate.” Mame blinked. Her strong financial instinct
automatically got busy. “Then you pull the big stuff, I guess?”
“Bread and butter.” As the bloated pluralist spoke she took a piece
from the plate in front of her and offered it delicately to Fu Ching
Wei.
The haughty animal suspiciously curled a lip and then condescended
to eat. “Nice, isn’t he?” His mistress tickled gently the top of his
head.
“Describe coronations for Reuter’s Agency?” Mame threw out a
feeler. The subject fascinated her. And though the mistress of Fu
Ching Wei might be a palpable bluffer, there was still a chance that
she was one of the mandarins of the profession into which Mame
herself was dying to force an entrance.
Awe was in Mame’s voice as she asked the question. Awe there was
none in the careless voice that answered it. “Describe any old
toomarsh from a dog fight to a royal marriage. Not that one does
those stunts often, although one gets about the world sometimes.”
“What’s your line, then?” Mame tried hard to mask her curiosity. But
rather conspicuously she failed.
“As a rule I write up the tea shops and hat shops and the
restaurants and the big stores. And I do the books and plays for the
women’s illustrateds.”
“But you do the big marriages too, I guess?” Mame’s voice throbbed.
“Not often. All marriages are so much alike they bore one.”
Mame’s expressive countenance showed that she could not imagine
herself being bored by doing marriages. “I’d just love that.”
“Love what?” The girl tickled the ear of Fu Ching Wei with the
meerschaum holder.
“I’d love to do the real class marriages for real class papers.”
The girl gave a shrug that Paula Wyse Ling would never have
permitted herself. But natural elegance carried it off.
Was she still putting it over on her? Or was she just trying to cheek
her? Not that it mattered. Even if she was a regular queen of
bluffers, she was also by a long sight the most interesting creature
Mame had yet found in London.
So far the girl had left to Mame the business of asking questions.
But in spite of an air of nonchalance, which Mame rather admired,
she was not above putting one or two questions of her own.
“Are you a writing person?” she said, offering Fu Ching Wei a little
milk in a saucer.
“You said it.” Of all the reams Mame had written since trekking east
hardly a line had found its way into print; but that did not prevent
her taking pride in the fact that the pen was her vocation. She
hesitated a moment. Then she opened her bag and produced a card.
By now she knew enough of the newspaper walks of Britain to doubt
the worth of this bit of pasteboard. At first it had given her real
pleasure to display it. But she had now reached the phase when she
was not sure that her card was not where she got off.
Still, there was nothing to lose by shooting it upon this girl. It would
be trying it, as it were, upon the dog. This smart skirt was the top of
her class. No matter what she might be, she was just as full of style
as she could hold. It would be worth while to note the effect of a
rather doubtful talisman upon her.
She did not say so, nor did her manner betray the fact, but it was a
sure thing that she had never heard of Cowbarn or its leading
newspaper. But Mame liked the kind and friendly way she handed
back the card with the remark: “You’re in journalism too, I see.”
No lugs. No frills. By her own account she was a he-one at the
game. It had been Mame’s instinct to doubt that, but this tone of
pleasant quietness, this we’re-all-friends-round-the-darned-old-
inkpot style was something new. This bird who was dressed to the
nines, and who behaved as if she just naturally owned London,
seemed to be quite disarmed by the European Correspondent of the
Cowbarn Independent.
Without getting gay or in any wise familiar, she became as chatty as
if she and Mame had begun their young lives together at the same
convent school. It was clear that Mame had aroused her interest.
The questions she put were shrewd and the answers she received
amused her.
Mame asked if she knew the States.
She got over there sometimes. “Great fun, the U. S., I always think.
Don’t you?”
Mame had never found the land of her fathers great fun, but she
had far too much pride in it to say so.
“The U. S. is so progressive.”
“You said it.”
The girl had a lot to say of America. And every word was well
disposed, without any touch of condescension.
“Stay, I guess, with the Vanderbilts and the Astors when you visit
New York?” Mame threw a plummet to bring her down to cases.
“The MacFarlanes are my particular friends.” She spoke off-handedly.
“And they always give one such a good time.”
“I’ll say, yes,” Mame remarked drily. She was not quite clear in her
mind whether the madam could be allowed to get away with that.
She would be saying next that in London her headquarters were
Buckingham Palace.
The girl produced a cigarette case. It was a wonderful piece of
chinoiserie in flowered purple silk. “Have a gasper?”
Mame had yet to acquire the habit of smoking gaspers. She declined
with thanks. But the girl fitted an amber-scented one to the
meerschaum holder so elegantly, that Mame decided to practise the
art at the first opportunity. Paula Ling had said that it was even more
chic in Europe than it was on Long Island. As usual Paula Ling was
right.
While Mame, out of the corners of a pair of very seeing eyes,
marked all that the smart piece did, she took a resolve to start in at
once to develop her own personality. Here was terrific personality. It
did not in any sense obtrude; it did not sort of hit you right in the
middle of the eye, as Paula’s did, but it was there all the time.
Moreover, it was earning dividends for its owner. This skirt was not in
the true sense of the word a looker, but there was jazz in her talk, in
her actions, in all her ways. She did not paint her face, use lip-stick
or bead her eyes; in clothes, although Mame guessed they were as
good as could be got for money, she was quiet; but her general
effect was as salt as a breeze from the sea. Mame could but envy
and admire and wonder how the trick was done.
“Staying long in England?”
“I’ll have to get off this side of the world pretty soon now.” Mame
spoke a little wistfully.
Without seeming to look at Mame, the girl, from behind the rampart
of the meerschaum holder, must somehow have read the true index
to her feelings. That index was Mame’s eyes. Very good eyes they
were; and, unknown to their owner, singularly expressive. Grey eyes,
large, serious, open, full of trouble. For all the orbs behind the
meerschaum holder were so impersonal, when as now they were
three-quarters lidded, they had a power of seeing into things that
might have astonished Mame considerably had she known the full
extent of their faculty.
“Anything I can do for you?”
It was one British journalist to one American or vice versa: a bit of
international courtesy. But to Mame it was more. There was a
genuine ring of kindness, as pure a note of music as Mame had yet
heard.
Her practical mind at once got busy. This might be a chance. Bluffer
as this girl most likely was, there could yet be no harm in trying her
out.
“Before I go back home,” said Mame, tentative as a kitten treading
on ice; “I’d like an invite to some mansion of real class. I’d like to do
a big wedding for my paper.”
“Do you mean this function next week at Clanborough House?” The
girl was journalist enough to own a mind which could move with
uncommon nimbleness.
“You’ve made it in one.” Quick in the uptake, this bird. Mame was
moved to say so.
“My dear Watson, really quite simple.” The meerschaum holder
received a Sherlock Holmes tilt. “George Rex and Consort are going
to honour the occasion. You saw it in the Times this morning.”
Mame breathed hard. This girl was no slouch. A four-flusher, yet she
might have strings to pull. And it would be one over on Paula Ling if
a little hick from Cowbarn, Iowa, got playing around among the
royalties; not to mention the Fleet Street gentleman who had said
the only way she would get to Clanborough House would be as a
hired girl. The insult still rankled.
“A dull affair!” The new friend butted pleasantly into a rather tense
pause. “But I ought to have a card somewhere that may get you in,
if you care to come.”
Mame’s heart seemed to miss a beat when the girl began a search
for an invitation to the terribly beparagraphed wedding the following
week at Clanborough House.
“Should be one here.” Calmly she produced the beautiful cigarette
case. Something leapt in Mame’s throat as the entire contents of the
case were toppled out on to the tablecloth. There were half a dozen
cigarettes and twice that number of cards of various shapes and
sizes.
“Private view Black-and-white Exhibition, Burlington House.” Mame
was seething with suspense, but the girl went calmly and leisurely
through the cards. “Arts and Handicrafts Exhibition. Admit Bearer.
British and Foreign Bible Society. Randal Cantuar in the Chair.
Opening of Royal School of Cookery, New Wandsworth. Annual
Meeting Dumb Friends’ League. Reception for Dr. Hyam Baines
Pennefather, Baltimore Third Church, Hotel Cecil. No—yes—no. It
almost looks as if we’ve drawn zero.”
Mame’s heart sank. It was no more than was to be expected of a
tinhorn, but it would have been cracker-jack to have sailed into
Clanborough House by the main entrance, along with the King and
Queen and half the real doughnuts in the island.
She bit her lip with disappointment, yet at the back of her mind was
the knowledge that these things did not happen. They were too
good to be true. But the melancholy privilege still remained to one
who aspired to close and accurate observation of the human comedy
of seeing what the four-flusher would do next.
The girl coolly returned the contents to the lovely silk case. And then
she said in that casual tone which Mame was now beginning to
resent rather more than she admired: “Give me your address.”
Part of her bluff, of course. Still Mame saw no reason why her
address should not be given. Truth to tell, she was just a little proud
of it. Like many things in this queer city, it sounded better than it
was. She promptly took from her bag a decidedly professional-
looking reporter’s note-book, tore out a leaf, and then wrote
carefully with an equally professional-looking fountain pen: Miss
Amethyst Du Rance, Fotheringay House, Montacute Square,
Bloomsbury.
“Thanks,” said the smart skirt. Then she gave a glance, cool and
impassive, at what Mame had written; and, then, with a lurking
smile, which Mame was quick to detect, she added this memento to
the others which adorned her case.
“I’ll be glad of an invite for Clanborough House,” said Mame with
irony.
“Right-o. You shall have one in the course of post.”
“I don’t think,” Mame confided mutely to the dregs of her teacup.
And then she said with a demure mockery that was rooted in the
heart’s bitterness, “I reckon you’ll be there.”
The answer was “Sure” in the way it is given in New York. Perhaps
the high-flyer guessed that Mame was trying to call her bluff. Yet
beyond a doubt she carried it off royally. “I suppose I’ll have to be.”
“To write a report for your syndicate.” Mame’s voice had something
terribly like a sneer in it.
The girl laughed and shook her head. “This binge is a bit too much
of a family affair.”
“Oh!” said Mame inadequately. It was not easy to call the bluff of
this girl.
While Mame, who had now begun to feel vindictive, was seriously
considering the best means of letting this short-sport know that she
was not quite such a sucker as she seemed, a young man who had
just risen from an adjacent table came stalking her stealthily from
behind. He patted her on the shoulder.
“Hulloa, Bill!” The tone was very light and whimsical. “I didn’t see
the cat bring you in.”
Mame listened keenly for Bill’s answer. But it amounted to nothing
beyond a cheery laugh. All the same, she was mightily interested in
Bill.
He was dressed to beat the band: braided morning coat, white
spats, the last word in neckties. Evidently a regular fellow. He was
one of those upstanding, handsome boys in which the West End of
London seems to abound. Perhaps he was twenty-seven, or a little
less, with a skin naturally fair burnt to a most attractive shade of
copper by the suns of foreign climes. There was something so
wholesome and clean, so manly and trim about Bill, that even a girl
of sense might be expected to fall in love with him on sight. Mame
was not in a position to think of love. But he looked such a white
man, and so faultless in his grace that even as it was she could not
repress a little sigh of envy. Some girls didn’t appreciate their luck in
having boys of that sort feeding from the hand.
“Going?” Mame heard him say.
The queen of the four-flushers answered with an unmistakable “Yep”
which might have come from the Bowery. She went on to discard
her cigarette, to put away her meerschaum holder and then to
examine the inside of her purse. “Dammitall!” she said. “No change
and I must leave a shilling under the plate for the waiter. Have you
one about you, Bill?”
Bill obliged. The girl laid the shilling under her plate and got up from
the table. As she did so she turned abruptly to Mame and held out
her hand in a most winning manner. “A-rivederci. I have your
address. I won’t forget that card. So glad to have met you.”
While Mame returned doubtful thanks for a favour she did not
expect to receive, the girl and her escort were already under way.
With mingled feelings Mame watched them pass along the line of
tables. She saw the girl blow a kiss to the old woman with the
Roman nose, who in return offered a most truculent scowl. But this
was effaced by the homage of the maître d’hôtel, who bestowed
upon the girl an exaggerated bow. Moreover, as she made a smiling
progress down the long room, many eyes seemed to follow her; or,
as Mame was inclined to think, the eyes of the feminine section of
the tea-drinking public were drawn by the escort Bill.
Indeed, as a pair they were distinctly “it” as they went along to the
door. The girl stopped at several tables just to pass the time of day,
while Bill stood by like a big and amiable Newfoundland dog.
Mame sighed again. Yes, some skirts had luck! Up till that moment
she had not realised the possibilities in writing for the newspapers.
She would get no card, of course, for Clanborough House. But she
was already resigned to that. Birds of that sort were much too busy
paddling their private canoes. And why not? You simply got nowhere
if you didn’t.
When the girl finally went out through the doors at the end of the
room Mame was sure that she had seen and heard the last of her.
That was the way of the world as already she had come to
understand it. The big cities were chock-full of interesting folks, but
unless you were just-so it was not worth while to take you up.
To be worth while, that was the open sesame to New York and
London. Paula Ling had grasped that truth. That was why she was a
mass of paint and powder and patchouli; that was why she screwed
herself like a manikin, into tight smart clothes. But this skirt left
Paula standing. The Paulas of life, for all their brains and their will-
power, could not live five minutes with this sort of girl, who had
every new trick, and who, like Cinquevalli the famous conjurer, was
so expert she could almost do them shut-eye.
So much was Mame occupied with these thoughts that it was not
until she had paid her bill and was out once more upon the cold
pavement of Pall Mall that she gave herself a mental shake. She was
a fool. Had she kept her wits about her she would at least have
asked the waiter the name of this queen among four-flushers.
 XIII
MAME had quite made up her mind that she would not receive an
invitation to the wedding reception at Clanborough House. Why
should she? That the girl would prove as good as her word was not
on the cards. Such a promise was no more than a slick Londoner’s
way of showing how much she was in it, without really being quite
so much in it as she showed.
After all, however, it is a funny world. And this was Mame’s
reflection, when rather late the following afternoon, the little maid,
whose name was Janet, handed her a large, square, important-
looking envelope that had just come by post. At the sight of the
coronet on the back and the general air of quality Mame’s heart gave
a jump.
The unexpected had happened. Her Grace the Duchess of
Clanborough requested the honour—requested the honour, mark
you!—of the company of Miss Amethyst Du Rance at the marriage of
the Marquis of Belfield with her niece Miss Van Alsten at St.
Margaret’s, Westminster, at three o’clock on Thursday, April 6, and
afterwards at Clanborough House, Mayfair.
It was very odd. But it was distinctly thrilling. There was no need to
be so humble after all. The girl evidently was interested in Miss Du
Rance and had gone out of her way to do her a service. And Miss Du
Rance did not mind owning that she had been a little too ready to
suspect her of not being on the level.
With a sensation of deep but quiet triumph Mame listened now to
the tabbies faintly purring over their teacups. It called for self-control
not to ask the arch-puss, who gave herself out a bishop’s niece,
upon whom Mame had an especial down, whether she was going to
the ceremony at St. Margaret’s or to the reception at Clanborough
House, or whether she meant to do both?—although privately quite
sure that the old stiff was going to do neither. Happily she
remembered a text of the village preacher in the grim days when
she had to endure him every Sunday: “Be not exalted lest ye be cast
down.”
In spite of a glow in the centre of her being, the warning in those
words could not have been more salutary. So fully had Clanborough
House been dismissed from Mame’s thoughts that she had already
made up her mind to quit London as soon as possible. In fact, she
had just informed Mrs. Toogood that she would not require a room
beyond Saturday; and she had decided to go immediately after
breakfast to-morrow morning, Wednesday, to book a second-class
berth in the Vittoria, which was to sail three days later for New York.
The invitation to Clanborough House looked like changing all that. It
rather set Mame on the horns of a dilemma. A girl truly wise would
stick to the plan she had made, the voice of prudence told her.
Clanborough House would probably mean another fortnight in
London; it would involve her in a new hat and other expense; and if
she was not careful such a hole would be cut in her purse that
alarmingly few dollars would remain in it by the time she found
herself back on Broadway.
These reflections gave Mame a jolt. A lot of use an invite to
Clanborough House, if the price of it brought you to your uppers.
Aunt Lou’s legacy would be gone, along with the hundred and ten
dollars she had been able to save. Her job would be lost. And in a
place like New York it was no certainty that she would get another at
short notice. She had heard it described by those who should know
as the cruelest place on earth for persons who were up against it.
These were problems. Invitation in hand, Mame fiercely considered
them. Should she? Or should she not? The famous highbrow William
Shakespeare, according to the office calendar whose mottoes she
had by heart, the famous highbrow William Shakespeare had made
the statement that “there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken
at the flood, leads on to fortune.”
It might be so. That was true, no doubt, for some. But again, for
others it was quite likely not to be true. Circumstances alter cases.
William Shakespeare was writing in the spacious days of Queen
Elizabeth when there were not so darn many go-getters around. In
his time there were not more people than jobs and all the seats in
the public parks of the big cities were not overflowing with those
who couldn’t raise the price of a meal.
A problem, sure. On the one hand, prudence, foresight, a looking-
before-and-after; on the other, ambition, hope, adventure, all the
worth-while things. Such a chance would never recur. And if she had
brain enough to use it in the right way, there was no saying where it
might lead.
Mame spent a very restless night. But somewhere in the small
hours, when her mind was at its most lucid, she took the
momentous decision to follow her star.
If she turned back now, with the gates of her kingdom opening
wide, she never deserved to see them again. “Stick it, Mame.” That
had always been her slogan, even in the cold hour of sun-up before
the day’s work began or over a guttering candle after it was done,
when secretly she gave her whole mind to the hard and dry study of
stenography.
It was that power of giving her whole mind to things that in the end
had won freedom. If she had taken a line of least resistance or been
afraid to go all out for the things she wanted, she would still have
been doing chores upon the farm. No, she must stand up to her
luck. And if the worst came she could go home steerage.
Full of new resolve, Mame’s first act was to inform Mrs. Toogood that
she proposed to stay on at least another week. Then, after an
elaborate calculation of ways and means, she set out on a tour of
Oxford Street. A new hat she must have. When in Rome, etc. No use
looking a frump at Clanborough House. She would be mixing with
class. And if she was careful how she dressed and she watched her
step all the time, the folks might not be able to tell her from real.
A quiet mode was best suited to Miss Amethyst Du Rance. After
much observation of herself and other people, that was her
conclusion. Like most of her countrywomen she had a flair in the
matter of clothes. New York and London had taught her their value.
Already she was getting to know the worth of the mysterious
attribute, style.
The girl she had met at the Carlton was a revelation of what style
could do. It was a far better thing than mere looks. But Mame’s
ambition was to have both. And if she could only fulfil it, there was
no reason, so far as she could see, why she should not unlock the
most exclusive doors in Britain.
At all events, it should not be for want of trying. If the invite to
Clanborough House meant anything it was that she had found a
bonanza. The girl must be a regular high-flyer, and for some
mysterious reason, which Mame could not fathom, she was willing to
be a fairy godmother. It was up to Mame to prove her own mettle.
Here, at last, was a chance to pull the big stuff.
Many hours in Oxford Street were necessary before Mame’s
prudence could decide just how much to be bled. She had to get
home, if, in spite of Clanborough House, the stars in their courses
played her false. After she had duly paid for the hat on which she
had set her heart, and a captivating fox so near real that she fell for
it at the last moment, she was quite alarmed by the narrow margin
of safety.
At the end of the day she wrote an urgent letter to the editor of the
Cowbarn Independent. She told him how disappointed she was not
to have had a line all the time she had been in Europe. And she
hinted that a few dollars in exchange for the fifteen columns she had
already sent him would be welcome.
But what was the Independent anyway? At best a fourth-rate sheet,
a small-town rag. She would forget it. The time had surely come to
fly at higher game.
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