just as the café-restaurant had been an intensification of ordinary life, so was the ball in dauphin’s studio an intensification of the café-restaurant. it had more colour, more noise, more music, more heat, more varied kinds of people, and, of course, far more riotous movement than the café-restaurant. the only quality in which the café-restaurant stood first was that of sustenance. monsieur dauphin had not attempted to rival the café-restaurant in the matter of food and drink. and that there was no general hope of his doing so could be deduced from the fact that many of the more experienced guests arrived with bottles, fruit, sausages, and sandwiches of their own.

when audrey and her friends entered the precincts of the vast new white building in the boulevard raspail, upon whose topmost floor monsieur dauphin painted the portraits of the women of the french, british, and american plutocracies and aristocracies, a lift full of gay-coloured figures was just shooting upwards past the wrought-iron balustrades of the gigantic staircase. tommy and nick stopped to speak to a columbine who hovered between the pavement and the threshold of the house.

“i don’t know whether it’s the grenadine or the lobster, or whether it’s paris,” said miss ingate confidentially in the interval; “but i can scarcely tell whether i’m standing on my head or my heels.”

before the americans rejoined them, the lift had returned and ascended with another covey of fancy costumes, including a man with a nose a foot long and a girl with bright green hair, dressed as an acrobat. on its next journey the lift held tommy and nick’s party, and it held no more.

when the party emerged from it, they were greeted with a cheer, hoarse and half human, by a band of light amateur mountebanks of both sexes who were huddled in a doorway. within a quarter of an hour audrey and miss ingate, after astounding struggles in a dressing-room in which nick alone saved their lives and reputations, appeared in japanese disguise according to promise, and nobody could tell whether audrey was maid, wife, or widow. she might have been a creature created on the spot, for the celestial purpose of a fancy-dress ball in monsieur dauphin’s studio.

the studio was very large and rather lofty. its walls had been painted by gifted pupils of monsieur dauphin and by fellow-artists, with scenes of life according to catullus, theocritus, propertius, martial, petronius, and other classical writers. it is not too much to say that the walls of the studio constituted a complete novelty for audrey and miss ingate. miss ingate opened her mouth to say something, but, saying nothing, forgot for a long time to shut it again.

chinese lanterns, electrically illuminated, were strung across the studio at a convenient height so that athletic dancers could prodigiously leap up and make them swing. beneath this incoherent but exciting radiance the guests swayed and glided, in a joyous din, under the influence of an orchestra of men snouted like pigs and raised on a dais. in a corner was a spiral staircase leading to the flat roof of the studio and a view of all paris. up and down this corkscrew contending parties fought amiably for the right of way.

tommy and nick began instantly to perform introductions between audrey and miss ingate and the other guests. in a few moments audrey had failed to catch the names of a score and a half of people—many americans, some french, some argentine, one or two english. they were all very talented people, and, according to miss ingate, the most characteristically french were invariably either americans or argentines.

a telephone bell rang in the distance, and presently a toreador stood on a chair and pierced the music with a message of yells in french, and the room hugely guffawed and cheered.

“where is the host?” audrey asked.

“that’s what the telephoning was about,” said tommy, speaking loudly against the hubbub. “he hasn’t come yet. he had to rush off this afternoon to do pastel portraits of two russian princesses at st. germain, and he hasn’t got back yet. the telephone was to say that he’s started.”

then one of the introduced—it was a girl wearing a mask —took audrey by the waist and whirled her strongly away and she was lost in the maze. audrey’s first impulse was to protest, but she said to herself: “why protest? this is what we’re here for.” and she gave herself up to the dance. her partner held her very firmly, somewhat bending over her. neither spoke. gyrating in long curves, with the other dancers swishing mysteriously about them like the dancers of a dream, and the music as far off as another world, they clung together in the rhythm and in the enchantment, until the music ceased.... the strong girl threw audrey carelessly off, and walked away, breathing hard. and there was something in the strong girl’s nonchalant and curt departure which woke a chord in audrey’s soul that had never been wakened before. audrey could scarcely credit that she was on the same planet as essex. she had many dances with men whom she hoped and believed she had been introduced to by tommy, and no less than seventeen persons of either sex told her in unusual english that they had heard she wanted to learn french and that they would like to teach her; and then she met musa, the devil.

musa, with an indolent and wistful smile, suggested the roof. audrey was now just one of the throng, and quite unconscious of herself; she fought archly and gaily on the spiral staircase exactly as she had seen others do, and at last they were on the roof, and the silhouettes of other fantastic figures and of cowled chimney pots stood out dark against the vague yellow glow of the city beneath. while musa was pointing out the historic landmarks to her, she was thinking how she could never again be the girl who had left moze on the previous morning. and yet musa was so natural and so direct that it was impossible to take him for anything but a boy, and hence audrey sank back into early girlhood, talking spasmodically to musa as she used in school days to talk to the brother of her school friend.

“i will teach you french,” said musa, unaware that he had numerous predecessors in the offer. “but will you play tennis with me in the gardens of the luxembourg?”

audrey said she would, and that she would buy a racket.

“tell me about all those artists miss nickall spoke of,” she said. “i must know about all the artists, and all the musicians, and all the authors. i must know all about them at once. i shan’t sleep until i know all their names and i can talk french. i shan’t sleep.”

musa began the catalogue. when a girl came and chucked him under the chin, he angrily slapped her face. then, to avoid complications, they descended.

in the middle of the studio, wearing a silk hat, a morning coat, striped trousers, yellow gloves, and boots with spats, stood a smiling figure.

“voilà dauphin!” said musa.

“musa!” called monsieur dauphin, espying the youth on the staircase. then he made a gesture to the orchestra: “give him a violin!”

audrey stood by musa while he played a dance that nobody danced to, and when he had finished she was rather ashamed, under the curtain of wild cheering, because with her essex incredulity she had not sufficiently believed in musa’s greatness.

“permit your host to introduce himself,” said a voice behind her, not in the correct english of a linguistic frenchman, but in utterly english english. she had now descended to the floor of the studio.

emile dauphin raised his glossy hat, and then asked to be allowed to put it on again, as the company had decided that it was part of his costume. he had a delicious smile, at once respectful and intimate. audrey had read somewhere that really great men were always simple and unaffected—indeed that it was often impossible to guess from their demeanour that, etc., etc.—and this experience of the first celebrity with whom she had ever spoken (except musa, who was somehow only musa) confirmed the statement, and confirmed also her young instinctive belief that what is printed must be true. she was beginning to feel the stealthy on-comings of fatigue, and certainly she was very nervous, but monsieur dauphin’s quite particularly sympathetic manner, and her own sudden determination not to be a little blushing fool gave her new power.

“i can’t express to you,” he said, moving towards the dais and mesmerising her to keep by his side. “i can’t express to you how sorry i was to be so late.” he made the apology with lightness, but with sincerity. audrey knew how polite the french were. “but truly circumstances were too much for me. those two russian princesses—they came to me through a mutual friend, a dear old friend of mine, very closely attached also to them. they leave to-morrow morning by the st. petersburg express, on which they have engaged a special coach. what was i to do? i tried to tear myself away earlier, but of course there were the portrait sketches to finish, and no doubt you know the usage of the best society in russia.”

“yes,” murmured audrey.

“come up on the dais, will you?” he suggested. “and let us survey the scene together.”

they surveyed the scene together. the snouted band was having supper on the floor in a corner, and many of the guests also were seated on the floor. miss ingate, intoxicated by the rapture of existence, and miss thompkins were carefully examining the frescoes on the walls. a young woman covered from head to foot with gold tinsel was throwing chocolates into musa’s mouth, or as near to it as she could.

“what a splendid player mr. musa is!” audrey inaugurated her career as a woman of the world. “i doubt if i have ever heard such violin playing.”

“i’m so glad you think so,” replied monsieur dauphin. “of course you know i’m very conceited about my painting. anybody will tell you so. but beneath all that i’m not so sure. i often have the gravest doubts about my work. but i never had any doubt that when i took musa out of the orchestra in the café de versailles i was giving a genius to the world. and perhaps that’s how i shall be remembered by posterity. and if it is i shall be content.”

never before had audrey heard anybody connect himself with posterity, and she was very much impressed. monsieur dauphin was resigned and yet brave. by no means convinced that posterity would do the right thing, he nevertheless had no grudge against posterity.

just then there was a sharp scream at the top of the spiral staircase. with a smile that condoned the scream and excused his flight, monsieur dauphin ran to the staircase, and up it, and disappeared on to the roof. nobody seemed to be perturbed. audrey was left alone and conspicuous on the dais.

“charming, isn’t he?” said miss thompkins, arriving with miss ingate in front of the flower-screened platform.

“oh! he is!” answered audrey with sincerity, leaning downwards.

“has he told you all about the russian princesses?”

“oh, yes,” said audrey, pleased.

“i thought he would,” said miss thompkins, with a peculiar intonation.

audrey knew then that miss thompkins, having first maliciously made sure that she was a ninny, was now telling her to her face that she was a ninny.

tommy continued:

“then i guess he told you he’d given musa to the world.”

audrey nodded.

“ah! i knew he would. well, when he comes back he’ll tell you that you must come to one of his real entertainments here, and that this one is nothing. then he’ll tell you about all the nobs he knows in london. and at last he’ll say that you have a strangely expressive face, and he’d like to paint it and show the picture in the salon. but he won’t tell you it’ll cost you forty thousand francs. so i’ll tell you that, because perhaps later on, if you don’t know, you might find yourself making a noise like a tenderfoot. you see, miss ingate hasn’t concealed that you’re a lady millionaire.”

“no, i haven’t,” said miss ingate, glowing and yet sarcastic. “i couldn’t bring myself to, because i was so anxious to see if human nature in paris is anything like what it is in essex.”

“and why should you hide it, winnie?” audrey stoutly demanded.

“well, au revoir,” tommy murmured delicately, with a very original gesture. “he’s coming back.”

as monsieur dauphin, having apparently established peace on the roof, approached again, audrey discreetly examined his face and his demeanour, to see if she could perceive in him any of the sinister things that tommy had implied. she was unable to make up her mind whether she could or not. but in the end she decided that she was as shrewd as anybody in the place.

“have you been to my roof-garden, mrs. moncreiff?” he asked in a persuasive voice, raising his eyebrows.

she said she had, and that she thought the roof was heavenly.

then from the corner of her eye she saw miss ingate and tommy sidling mischievously away, like conspirators who have lighted a time fuse. she considered that tommy, with her red hair and freckles, and strange glances and strange tones full of a naughty and malicious sweetness, was even more peculiar than miss ingate. but she was not intimidated by them nor by the illustrious monsieur dauphin, so perfectly master of his faculties. rather she was exultant in the contagion of their malice. once more she felt as if she had ceased to be a girl a very long time ago. and she was aware of agreeable and exciting temptations.

“are you taking a house in paris?” inquired monsieur dauphin.

audrey answered primly:

“i haven’t decided. should you advise me to do so?”

he waved a hand.

“ah! it depends on the life you wish to lead. who knows—with a young woman who has all experience behind her and all life before her! but i do hope i may see you again. and i trust i may persuade you to come to my studio again.” audrey felt the thrill of drama as he proceeded. “this is scarcely a night for you. i ought to tell you that i give three entertainments during the autumn. to-night is the first. it is for students and those english and americans who think they are seeing paris here. then i give another for the political and dramatic worlds. each is secretly proud to meet the other. the third i reserve to my friends. some of my many friends in london are good enough to come over specially for it. it is on christmas eve. i do wish you would come to that one.”

“i suppose,” she said, catching the diabolic glances of miss ingate and tommy, “i suppose you know almost more people in london than in paris?”

he answered:

“well, i count among my friends more than two-thirds of the subscribers to covent garden opera.... by the way, do you happen to be connected with the moncreiffs of suddon wester? they have a charming house in hyde park terrace. but probably you know it?”

audrey burst out laughing. she laughed loud and violently till the tears stood in her eyes.

“well,” he said, at a loss, deprecatingly. “perhaps these moncreiffs are rather weird.”

“i was only laughing,” she said in gasps, but with a complete secret composure. “because we had such an awful quarrel with them last year. i couldn’t tell you the details. they’re too shocking.”

he gave a dubious smile.

“d’you know, dear young lady,” he recommenced after a brief pause, “i should adore to paint a portrait of you laughing. it would be very well hung in the salon. your face is so strangely expressive. it is utterly different, in expression, from any other face i ever saw—and i have studied faces.”

heedless of the general interest which she was arousing, audrey leaned on the rail of the screen of flowers, and gave herself up afresh to laughter. monsieur dauphin was decidedly puzzled. the affair might have ended in hysteria and confusion had not miss ingate, with nick and tommy, come hurrying up to the dais.

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