the next day, after a studio lunch which contained too much starch and was deficient in nitrogen, miss ingate, putting on her hat and jacket, said with a caustic gesture:

“well, i must be off to my life class. and much good may it do me!”

the astonishing creature had apparently begun existence again, and begun it on the plane of art, but this did not prevent the observer within her from taking the same attitude towards her second career as she had taken towards her first. nothing seemed more meet for miss ingate’s ironic contemplation than the daily struggle for style and beauty in the academies of the quarter.

audrey made no reply. the morning had been unusually silent, giving considerable scope for miss ingate’s faculty for leaving well alone.

“i suppose you aren’t coming out?” added miss ingate.

“no. i went out a bit this morning. you know i have my french lesson in twenty minutes.”

“of course.”

miss ingate seized her apparatus and departed. the instant she was alone audrey began in haste to change into all her best clothes, which were black, and which the quarter seldom saw. fashionably arrayed, she sat down and wrote a note to madame schmitt, her french instructress, to say that she had been suddenly called away on urgent business, and asking her nevertheless to count the time as a lesson given. this done, she put her credit notes and her cheque-book into her handbag, and, leaving the note with the concierge’s wife, who bristled with interesting suspicions, she vanished into paris.

the weather was even more superb than on the previous day. paris glittered around her as she drove, slowly, in a horse-taxi, to the place de l’opéra on the right bank, where the grand boulevard meets the avenue de l’opéra and the rue de la paix. here was the very centre of the fashionable and pleasure-ridden district which the quarter held in noble scorn. she had seen it before, because she had started a banking account (under advice from mr. foulger), and the establishment of her bankers was situate at the corner of the avenue de l’opéra and the rue de la paix. but she knew little of the district, and such trifling information as she had acquired was tinged by the natural hostility of a young woman who for over six months, with no compulsion to do so, had toiled regularly and fiercely in the pursuit of knowledge. she paid off the cab, and went to test the soundness of her bankers. the place was full of tourists, and in one department of it young men in cages, who knew not the quarter, were counting, and ladling, and pinning together, and engorging, and dealing forth, the currency and notes of all the great nations of the earth. the spectacle was inspiring.

in half a year the restive but finally obedient mr. foulger had sent three thousand pounds to paris in the unpoetic form of small oblong pieces of paper signed with his own dull signature. audrey desired to experience the thrill of authentic money. she waited some time in front of a cage, with her cheque-book open on the counter, until a young man glanced at her interrogatively through the bars.

“how much money have i got here, please?” she asked. she ought to have said: “what is my balance, please?” but nobody had taught her the sacred formula.

“what name?” said the clerk.

“moze—audrey moze,” she answered, for she had not dared to acquaint mr. foulger with her widowhood, and his cheques were made out to herself.

the clerk vanished, and in a moment reappeared, silently wrote something on a little form, and pushed it to her under the grille. she read:

/* “73,065 frs. 50c.” */

the fact was that in six months she had spent little more than the amount which she had brought with her from london. having begun in simplicity, in simplicity she had continued, partly because she had been too industrious and too earnest for luxurious caprices, partly because she had never been accustomed to anything else but simplicity, and partly from wilfulness. it had pleased her to think that she was piling tens of thousands upon tens of thousands—in francs.

but in the night she had decided that the moment had arrived for a change in the great campaign of seeing life and tasting it.

she timorously drew a cheque for eleven thousand francs, and asked for ten thousand in notes and a thousand in gold. the clerk showed no trace of either astonishment or alarm; but he insisted on her endorsing the cheque. when she saw the gold, she changed half of it for ten notes of fifty francs each.

emerging with false but fairly plausible nonchalance from the crowded establishment, where other clerks were selling tickets to palestine, timbuctoo, bagdad, berlin, and all the abodes of happiness in the world, she saw at the newspaper kiosk opposite the little blue poster of an english daily. it said: “more suffragette riots.” she had a qualm, for her conscience was apt to be tyrannic, and its empire over her had been strengthened by the long, steady course of hard work which she had accomplished. miss ingate’s arguments had not placated that conscience. it had said to her in the night: “if ever there was a girl who ought to assist heartily in the emancipation of women, that girl is you, audrey moze.”

“pooh!” she replied to her conscience, for she could always confute it with a sharp word—for a time.

and she crossed to the grand boulevard, and turned westward along the splendid, humming, roaring thoroughfare gay with flags and gleaming with such plate-glass as nick the militant would have loved to shatter. certainly there was nothing like this street in the quarter. the quarter could equal it neither in shops, nor in cafés, nor in vehicles, nor in crowds. it was an exultant thoroughfare, and audrey caught its buoyancy, which could be distinctly seen in the feather on her hat. at the end of it she passed into the cool shade of a music-shop with the name “durand” on its façade. she had found the address, and another one, in the telephone book at the café de versailles that morning. it was an immense shop containing millions of pieces of music for all instruments and all tastes. yet when she modestly asked for the caprice for violin of roussel, the morceau was brought to her without the slightest hesitation, together with the pianoforte accompaniment. the price was twelve francs.

her gloved hand closed round the slim roll with the delicate firmness which was actuating all her proceedings on that magnificent afternoon. she was determined to save musa not merely from himself, but from miss thompkins and everybody. it was not that she was specially interested in musa. no! she was interested in a clean, neat job—that was all. she had begun to take charge of musa, and she intended to carry the affair through. he had the ability to succeed, and he should succeed. it would be ridiculous for him not to succeed. from certain hints, and from a deeply sagacious instinct, she had divined that money and management were the only ingredients lacking to musa’s triumph. she could supply both these elements; and she would. and her reward would be the pride of the workman in his job.

now her firmness hesitated. she retraced the boulevard to the place de l’opéra, and then took the rue de la paix. in the first shop on the left-hand side, next to her bankers, she saw amid a dazzling collection of jewelled articles for travellers and letter-writers and diary-keepers, a sublime gold handbag, or, as the french say, hand-sack. its clasp was set with a sapphire. impulse sent her gliding right into the shop, with the words already on her lips: “how much is that gold hand-sack in the window?” but when she reached the hushed and shadowed interior, which was furnished like a drawing-room with soft carpets and tapestried chairs, she beheld dozens of gold hand-sacks glinting like secret treasure in a cave; and she was embarrassed by the number and variety of them. a well-dressed and affable lady and gentleman, with a quite remarkable similarity of prominent noses, welcomed her in general terms, and seemed surprised, and even a little pained, when she talked about buying and selling. she came out of the shop with a gold hand-sack which had cost twelve hundred francs, and all her money was in it.

fortified by the impressive bauble, she walked along the street to the place vendôme, where she descried in the distance the glittering signs and arms of the hôtel du danube. then she walked up the opposite pavement of the rue de la paix, and down again and up again until she had grasped its significance.

it was a street of jewellery, perfumes, antiques, gloves, hats, frocks, and furs. it was a street wherein the lily was painted and gold was gilded. every window was a miracle of taste, refinement, and costliness. every article in every window was so dear that no article was ticketed with its price, save a few wafer-like watches and jewelled rings that bore tiny figures, such as 12,500 francs, 40,000 francs. despite her wealth, audrey felt poor. the upper windows of nearly all the great buildings were arrayed with plants in full bloom. the roadway was covered with superb automobiles, some of them nearly as long as trains. about half of them stood in repose at the kerb, and audrey as she strolled could see through their panes of bevelled glass the complex luxury within of toy dogs, clocks, writing-pads, mirrors, powder boxes, parasols, and the lounging arrogance of uniformed menials. at close intervals women passed rapidly across the pavements to or from these automobiles. if they were leaving a shop, the automobile sprang into life, dogs, menials, and all, the door was opened, the woman slipped in like a mechanical toy, the door banged, the menial jumped, and with trumpet tones the entire machine curved and swept away. the aspect of these women made audrey feel glad that she was wearing her best clothes, and simultaneously made her feel that her best clothes were worse than useless.

she saw an automobile shop with a card at the door: “town and touring cars for hire by day, week, or month.” a gorgeous mercédès, too spick, too span, altogether too celestial for earthly use, occupied most of the shop.

“good afternoon, madame,” said a man in bad english. for audrey had misguided herself into the emporium. she did not care to be addressed in her own tongue; she even objected to the instant discovery of her nationality, of which at the moment she was ashamed. and so it was with frigidity that she inquired whether cars were to be hired.

the shopman hesitated. audrey knew that she had committed an indiscretion. it was impossible that cars should be handed out thus unceremoniously to anybody who had the fancy to enter the shop! cars were naturally the subject of negotiations and references.... and then the shopman, espying the gold bag, and being by it and by the english frigidity humbled to his proper station, fawned and replied that he had cars for hire, and the best cars. did the lady want a large car or a small car? she wanted a large car. did she want a town or a touring car? she wanted a town car, and by the week. when did she want it? she wanted it at once—in half an hour.

“i can hire you a car in half an hour, with liveried chauffeur,” said the shopman, after telephoning. “but he cannot speak english.”

“ça m’est égal,” answered audrey with grim satisfaction. “what kind of a car will it be?”

“mercédès, madame.”

the price was eight hundred francs a week, inclusive. as audrey was paying for the first week the man murmured:

“what address, madame?”

“hôtel du danube,” she answered like lightning—indeed far quicker than thought. “but i shall call here for the car. it must be waiting outside.”

the dispenser of cars bowed.

“can you get a taxi for me?” audrey suggested. “i will leave this roll here and this bag,” producing her old handbag which she had concealed under her coat. and she thought: “all this is really very simple.”

at the other address which she had found in the telephone book—a house in the rue d’aumale—she said to an aged concierge:

“monsieur foa—which floor?”

a very dark, rather short and negligently dressed man of nearly middle-age who was descending the staircase, raised his hat with grave ceremony:

“pardon, madame. foa—it is i.”

audrey was not prepared for this encounter. she had intended to compose her face and her speech while mounting the staircase. she blushed.

“i come from musa—the violinist,” she began hesitatingly. “you invited him to play at your flat on friday night, monsieur.”

monsieur foa gave a sudden enchanting smile:

“yes, madame. i hear much good of him from my friend dauphin, much good. and we long to hear him play. it appears he is a great artist.”

“he has had an accident,” said audrey. monsier foa’s face grew serious. “it is nothing—a few days. the elbow—a trifle. he cannot play next friday. but he will be desolated if he may not play to you later. he has so few friends.... i came.... i....”

“madame, every friday we are at home, every friday. my wife will be ravished. i shall be ravished. believe me. let him be reassured.”

“monsieur, you are too amiable. i shall tell musa.”

“musa, he may have few friends—it is possible, madame—but he is nevertheless fortunate. madame is english, is it not so? my wife and i adore england and the english. for us there is only england. if madame would do us the honour of coming when musa plays.... my wife will send an invitation, to the end of remaining within the rules. you, madame, and any of your friends.”

“monsieur is too amiable, truly.”

in the end they were standing together on the pavement by the waiting taxi. she gave him her card, and breathed the words “hôtel du danube.” he was enchanted. she offered her hand. he took it, raised it, and kissed the back of it. then he stood with his hat off until she had passed from his sight.

audrey was burning with excitement. she said to herself:

“i have discovered paris.”

when the taxi turned again into the rue de la paix, she thought:

“the car will not be waiting. it would be too lovely if it were.”

but there the car was, huge, glistening, unreal, incredible. and a chauffeur gloved and liveried in brown, to match the car, stood by its side, and the shopman was at the door, holding the caprice of roussel and the old handbag ready in his hand.

“here is madame,” said he.

the chauffeur saluted.

the car was closed.

“will madame have the carriage open or closed?”

“closed.”

having paid the taxi-driver, audrey entered the car, and as she did so, she threw over her shoulder:

“hôtel du danube.”

while the chauffeur started the engine, the shopman with brilliant smiles delivered the music and the bag. the door clicked. audrey noticed the clock, the rug, the powder-box, the speaking-tube, and the mirror. she gazed, and saw a face triumphant and delicious in the mirror. the car began to glide forward. she leaned back against the pale grey upholstery, but in her soul she was standing and crying with a wild wave of the hand, to the whole street:

“it is a miracle!”

in a moment the gigantic car stopped in front of the hôtel du danube. two attendants rushed out in uniforms of delicate blue. they did not touch their hats—they raised them. audrey descended and penetrated into the portico, where a tall dandy saluted and inquired her will. she wanted rooms; she wanted a flat? certainly. they had nothing but flats. a large flat on the ground-floor was at her disposal absolutely. two bedrooms, sitting-room, bathroom. it had its own private entrance in the courtyard. she inspected it. the suite was furnished in the empire style. herself and maid? no. a friend! well, the maids could sleep upstairs. it could arrange itself. she had no maid? her friend had no maid? ah! so much the better. sixty francs a day.

“where is the dining-room?” demanded audrey.

“madame,” said the dandy, shocked. “we have no dining-room. all meals are specially cooked to order and served in the private rooms. we have the reputation....” he opened his arms and bowed.

good! good! she would return with her friend in one hour or so.

“106 rue delambre,” she bade the chauffeur, after being followed to the pavement by the dandy and a suite.

“rue de londres?” said the chauffeur.

“no. rue delambre.”

it had to be looked out on the map, but the chauffeur, trained to the hour, did not blench. however, when he found the rue delambre, the success with which he repudiated it was complete.

“winnie!” began audrey in the studio, with assumed indifference. miss ingate was at tea.

“oh! you are a swell. where you been?”

“winnie! what do you say to going and living on the right bank for a bit?”

“well, well!” said miss ingate. “so that’s it, is it? i’ve been ready to go for a long time. of course you want to go first thing to-morrow morning. i know you.”

“no, i don’t,” said audrey. “i want to go to-night. now! pack the trunks quick. i’ve got the finest auto you ever saw waiting at the door.”