The Lion's Share

FANCY DRESS

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.

A POLITICAL REFUGEE

“Rosamund has come to my studio and wants to see me at once. She has sent for me. Miss Ingate says she shall go, too.”

It was these words in a highly emotionalised voice from Miss Nickall that, like a vague murmured message of vast events, drew the entire quartet away from the bright inebriated scene created by Monsieur Dauphin.

The single word “Rosamund” sufficed to break one mood and induce another in all bosoms save that of Audrey, who was in a state of permanent joyous exultation that she scarcely even attempted to control. The great militant had a surname, but it was rarely used save by police magistrates. Her Christian name alone was more impressive than the myriad cognomens of queens and princesses. Miss Nickall ran away home at once. Miss Thompkins was left to deliver Miss Ingate and Audrey at Nick’s studio, which, being in the Rue Delambre, was not far away. And not the shedding of the kimono and the re-assumption of European attire could affect Audrey’s spirits. Had she been capable of regret in that hour, she would have regretted the abandonment of the ball, where the refined, spiritual, strange faces of the men, and the enigmatic quality of the women, and the exceeding novelty of the social code had begun to arouse in her sentiments of approval and admiration. But she quitted the staggering frolic without a sigh; for she carried within her a frolic surpassing anything exterior or physical.

The immense flickering boulevard with its double roadway stretched away to the horizon on either hand, empty.

“What time is it?” asked Miss Ingate.

Tommy looked at her wrist-watch.

“Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!” cried Audrey.

“We might get a taxi in the Rue de Babylone,” Tommy suggested. “Or shall we walk?”

“We must walk,” cried Audrey.

She knew the name of the street. In the distance she could recognise the dying lights of the café-restaurant where they had eaten. She felt already like an inhabitant of the dreamed-of city. It was almost inconceivable to her that she had been within it for only a few hours, and that England lay less than a day behind her in the past, and Moze less than two days. And Aguilar the morose, and the shuttered rooms of Flank Hall, shot for an instant into her mind and out again.

The other two women walked rather quickly, mesmerised possibly by the magic of the illustrious Christian name, and Audrey gave occasional schoolgirlish leaps by their side. A little policeman appeared inquisitive from a by-street, and Audrey tossed her head as if saying: “Pooh! I belong here. All the mystery of this city is mine, and I am as at home as in Moze Street.”

And as they surged through the echoing solitude of the boulevard, and as they crossed the equally tremendous boulevard that cut through it east and west, Tommy told the story of Nick’s previous relations with Rosamund. Nick had met Rosamund once before through her English chum, Betty Burke, an art student who had ultimately sacrificed art to the welfare of her sex, but who with Mrs. Burke had shared rooms and studio with Nick for many months. Tommy’s narrative was spotted with hardly perceptible sarcasms concerning art, women, Betty Burke, Mrs. Burke, and Nick; but she put no barb into Rosamund. And when Miss Ingate, who had never met Rosamund, asked what Rosamund amounted to in the esteem of Tommy, Tommy evaded the question. Miss Ingate remembered, however, what she had said in the café-restaurant.

Then they turned into the Rue Delambre, and Tommy halted them in the deep obscurity in front of another of those huge black doors which throughout Paris seemed to guard the secrets of individual life. An automobile was waiting close by. A little door in the huge one clicked and yielded, and they climbed over a step into black darkness.

“Thompkins!” called Miss Thompkins loudly to the black darkness, to reassure the drowsy concierge in his hidden den, shutting the door with a bang behind them; and, groping for the hands of the others, she dragged them forward stumbling.

“I never have a match,” she said.

They blundered up tenebrous stairs.

“We’re just passing my door,” said Tommy. “Nick’s is higher up.”

Then a perpendicular slit of light showed itself—and a portal slightly open could be distinguished.

“I shall quit here,” said Tommy. “You go right in.”

“You aren’t leaving us?” exclaimed Miss Ingate in alarm.

“I won’t go in,” Tommy persisted in a quiet satiric tone. “I’ll leave my door open below, and see you when you come down.”

She could be heard descending.

“Why, I guess they’re here,” said a voice, Nick’s, within, and the door was pulled wide open.

“My legs are all of a tremble!” muttered Miss Ingate.

Nick’s studio seemed larger than reality because of its inadequate illumination. On a small paint-stained table in the centre was an oil-lamp beneath a round shade that had been decorated by some artist’s hand with a series of reclining women in many colours. This lamp made a moon in the midnight of the studio, but it was a moon almost without rays; the shade seemed to imprison the light, save that which escaped from its superior orifice. Against the table stood a tall thin woman in black. Her face was lit by the rays escaping upward; a pale, firm, bland face, with rather prominent cheeks, loose grey hair above, surmounted by a toque. The dress was dark, and the only noticeable feature of it was that the sleeves were finished in white linen; from these the hands emerged calm and veined under the lampshade; in one of them a pair of gloves were clasped. On the table lay a thin mantle.

At the back of the studio there sat another woman, so engloomed that no detail of her could be distinguished.

“As I was saying,” the tall upright woman resumed as soon as Miss Ingate and Audrey had been introduced. “Betty Burke is in prison. She got six weeks this morning. She may never come out again. Almost her last words from the dock were that you, Miss Nickall, should be asked to go to London to look after Mrs. Burke, and perhaps to take Betty’s place in other ways. She said that her mother preferred you to anybody else, and that she was sure you would come. Shall you?”

The accents were very clear, the face was delicately smiling, the little gestures had a quite tranquil quality. Rosamund did not seem to care whether Miss Nickall obeyed the summons or not. She did not seem to care about anything whatever except her own manner of existing. She was the centre of Paris, and Paris was naught but a circumference for her. All phenomena beyond the individuality of the woman were reduced to the irrelevant and the negligible. It would have been absurd to mention to her costume balls. The frost of her indifference would have wilted them into nothingness.

“Yes, of course, I shall go,” Nick answered.

“When?” was the implacable question.

“Oh! By the first train,” said Nick eagerly. As she approached the lamp, the gleam of the devotee could be seen in her gaze. In one moment she had sacrificed Paris and art and Tommy and herself, and had risen to the sacred ardour of a vocation. Rosamund was well accustomed to watching the process, and she gave not the least sign of satisfaction or approval.

“I ought to tell you,” she went on, “that I came over from London suddenly by the afternoon service in order to escape arrest. I am now a political refugee. Things have come to this pass. You will do well to leave by the first train. That is why I decided to call here before going to bed.”

“Where’s Tommy?” asked Nick, appealing wildly to Miss Ingate and Audrey. Upon being answered she said, still more wildly: “I must see her. Can you—No, I’ll run down myself.” In the doorway she turned round: “Mrs. Moncreiff, would you and Miss Ingate like to have my studio while I’m away? I should just love you to. There’s a very nice bed over there behind the screen, and a fair sort of couch over here. Do say you will! Do!”

“Oh! We will!” Miss Ingate replied at once, reassuringly, as though in haste to grant the supreme request of some condemned victim. And indeed Miss Nickall appeared ready to burst into tears if she should be thwarted.

As soon as Nick had gone, Miss Ingate’s smiling face, nervous, intimidated, audacious, sardonic, and good humoured, moved out of the gloom nearer to Rosamund.

“You knew I played the barrel organ all down Regent Street?” she ventured, blushing.

“Ah!” murmured Rosamund, unmoved. “It was you who played the barrel-organ? So it was.”

“Yes,” said Miss Ingate. “But I’m like you. I don’t care passionately for prison. Eh! Eh! I’m not so vehy, vehy fond of it. I don’t know Miss Burke, but what a pity she has got six weeks, isn’t it? Still, I was vehy much struck by what someone said to me to-day—that you’d be vehy sorry if women did get the vote. I think I should be sorry, too—you know what I mean.”

“Perfectly,” ejaculated Rosamund, with a pleasant smile.

“I hope I’m not skidding,” said Miss Ingate still more timidly, but also with a sardonic giggle, looking round into the gloom. “I do skid sometimes, you know, and we’ve just come away from a——”

She could not finish.

“And Mrs. Moncreiff, if I’ve got the name right, is she with us, too?” asked Rosamund, miraculously urbane. And added: “I hear she has wealth and is the mistress of it.”

Audrey jumped up, smiling, and lifting her veil. She could not help smiling. The studio, the lamp, Rosamund with her miraculous self-complacency, Nick with her soft, mad eyes and wistful voice, the blundering ruthless Miss Ingate, all seemed intensely absurd to her. Everything seemed absurd except dancing and revelry and coloured lights and strange disguises and sensuous contacts. She had the most careless contempt, stiffened by a slight loathing, for political movements and every melancholy effort to reform the world. The world did not need reforming and did not want to be reformed.

“Perhaps you don’t know my story,” Audrey began, not realising how she would continue. “I am a widow. I made an unhappy marriage. My husband on the day after our wedding-day began to eat peas with his knife. In a week I was forced to leave him. And a fortnight later I heard that he was dead of blood-poisoning. He had cut his mouth.”

And she thought:

“What is the matter with me? I have ruined myself.” All her exultation had collapsed.

But Rosamund remarked gravely:

“It is a common story.”

Suddenly there was a movement in the obscure corner where sat the unnamed and unintroduced lady. This lady rose and came towards the table. She was very elegant in dress and manner, and she looked maturely young.

“Madame Piriac,” announced Rosamund.

Audrey recoiled.... Gazing hard at the face, she saw in it a vague but undeniable resemblance to certain admired photographs which had arrived at Moze from France.

“Pardon me!” said Madame Piriac in English with a strong French accent. “I shall like very much to hear the details of this story of petits pois.” The tone of Madame Piriac’s question was unexceptionable; it took account of Audrey’s mourning attire, and of her youthfulness; but Audrey could formulate no answer to it. Instead of speaking she gave a touch to her veil, and it dropped before her piquant, troubled, inscrutable face like a screen.

Miss Ingate said with noticeable calm, but also with the air of a conspirator who sees danger to a most secret machination:

“I’m afraid Mrs. Moncreiff won’t care to go into details.”

It was neatly done. Madame Piriac brought the episode to a close with a sympathetic smile and an apposite gesture. And Audrey, safe behind her veil, glanced gratefully and admiringly at Miss Ingate, who, taken quite unawares, had been so surprisingly able thus to get her out of a scrape. She felt very young and callow among these three women, and the mere presence of Madame Piriac, of whom years ago she had created for herself a wondrous image, put her into a considerable flutter. On the whole she was ready to believe that the actual Madame Piriac was quite equal to the image of her founded on photographs and letters. She set her teeth, and decided that Madame Piriac should not learn her identity—yet! There was little risk of her discovering it for herself, for no photograph of Audrey had gone to Paris for a dozen years, and Miss Ingate’s loyalty was absolute.

As Audrey sat down again, the illustrious Rosamund took a chair near her, and it could not be doubted that the woman had the mien and the carriage of a leader.

“You are very rich, are you not?” asked Rosamund, in a tone at once deferential and intimate, and she smiled very attractively in the gloom. Impossible not to reckon with that smile, as startling as it was seductive!

Evidently Nick had been communicative.

“I suppose I am,” murmured Audrey, like a child, and feeling like a child. Yet at the same time she was asking herself with fierce curiosity: “What has Madame Piriac got to do with this woman?”

“I hear you have eight or ten thousand a year and can do what you like with it. And you cannot be more than twenty-three.... What a responsibility it must be for you! You are a friend of Miss Ingate’s and therefore on our side. Indeed, if a woman such as you were not on our side, I wonder whom we could count on. Miss Ingate is, of course, a subscriber to the Union—”

“Only a very little one,” cried Miss Ingate.

Audrey had never felt so abashed since an ex-parlourmaid at Flank Hall, who had left everything to join the Salvation Army, had asked her once in the streets of Colchester whether she had found salvation. She knew that she, if any one, ought to subscribe to the Suffragette Union, and to subscribe largely. For she was a convinced suffragette by faith, because Miss Ingate was a convinced suffragette. If Miss Ingate had been a Mormon, Audrey also would have been a Mormon. And, although she hated to subscribe, she knew also that if Rosamund demanded from her any subscription, however large—even a thousand pounds—she would not know how to refuse. She felt before Rosamund as hundreds of women, and not a few men, had felt.

“I may be leaving for Germany to-morrow,” Rosamund proceeded. “I may not see you again—at any rate for many weeks. May I write to London that you mean to support us?”

Audrey was giving herself up for lost, and not without reason. She foreshadowed a future of steely self-sacrifice, propaganda, hammers, riots, and prison; with no self-indulgence in it, no fine clothes, no art, and no young men save earnest young men. She saw herself in the iron clutch of her own conscience and sense of duty. And she was frightened. But at that moment Nick rushed into the room, and the spell was broken. Nick considered that she had the right to monopolise Rosamund, and she monopolised her.

Miss Ingate prudently gathered Audrey to her side, and was off with her. Nick ran to kiss them, and told them that Tommy was waiting for them in the other studio. They groped downstairs, guided by a wisp of light from Tommy’s studio.

“Why didn’t you come up?” asked Miss Ingate of Tommy in Tommy’s antechamber. “Have you and she quarrelled?”

“Oh no!” said Tommy. “But I’m afraid of her. She’d grab me if she had the least chance, and I don’t want to be grabbed.”

Tommy was arranging to escort them home, and had already got out on the landing, when Rosamund and Madame Piriac, followed by Nick holding a candle aloft, came down the stairs. A few words of explanation, a little innocent blundering on the part of Nick, a polite suggestion by Madame Piriac, and an imperious affirmative by Rosamund—and the two strangers to Paris found themselves in Madame Piriac’s waiting automobile on the way to their rooms!

In the darkness of the car the four women could not distinguish each other’s faces. But Rosamund’s voice was audible in a monologue, and Miss Ingate trembled for Audrey and for the future.

“This is the most important political movement in the history of the world,” Rosamund was saying, not at all in a speechifying manner, but quite intimately and naturally. “Everybody admits that, and that’s what makes it so extraordinarily interesting, and that is why we have had such magnificent help from women in the very highest positions who wouldn’t dream of touching ordinary politics. It’s a marvellous thing to be in the movement, if we can only realise it. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Moncreiff?”

Audrey made no response. The other two sat silent. Miss Ingate thought:

“What’s the girl going to do next? Surely she could mumble something.”

The car curved and stopped.

“Here we are,” said Miss Ingate, delighted. “And thank you so much. I suppose all we have to do is just to push the bell and the door opens. Now Audrey, dear.”

Audrey did not stir.

“Mon Dieu!“ murmured Madame Piriac, “What has she, little one?”

Rosamund said stiffly and curtly:

“She is asleep.... It is very late. Four o’clock.”

Excellent as was Audrey’s excuse for her lapse, Rosamund was not at all pleased. That slumber was one of Rosamund’s rare defeats.

WIDOWHOOD IN THE STUDIO

Audrey was in a white piqué coat and short skirt, with pale blue blouse and pale blue hat—and at the extremity blue stockings and white tennis shoes. She picked up a tennis racket in its press, and prepared to leave the studio. She had bought the coat, the skirt, the blouse, the hat, the tennis shoes, the racket, the press, and practically all she wore, visible and invisible, at that very convenient and immense shop, the Bon Marché, whose only drawback was that it was always full. Everybody in the Quarter, except a few dolls not in earnest, bought everything at the Bon Marché, because the Bon Marché was so comprehensive and so reliable. If you desired a toothbrush, the Bon Marché not only supplied it, but delivered it in a 30-h.p. motor-van manned by two officials in uniform. And if you desired a bedroom suite, a pair of corsets, a box of pastels, an anthracite stove, or a new wallpaper, the Bon Marché would never shake its head.

And Audrey was now of the Quarter. Many simple sojourners in the Quarter tried to imply the Latin Quarter when they said the Quarter. But the Quarter was only the Montparnasse Quarter. Nevertheless, it sufficed. It had its own boulevards, restaurants, cafés, concerts, theatres, palaces, shops, gardens, museums, and churches. There was no need to leave it, and if you were a proper amateur of the Quarter, you never did leave it save to scoff at other Quarters. Sometimes you fringed the Latin Quarter in the big cafés of the Boulevard St. Michel, and sometimes you strolled northwards as far as the Seine, and occasionally even crossed the Seine in order to enter the Louvre, which lined the other bank, but you did not go any farther. Why should you?

Audrey had become so acclimatised to the Quarter that Miss Nickall’s studio seemed her natural home. It was very typically a woman’s studio of the Quarter. About thirty feet each way and fourteen feet high, with certain irregularities of shape, it was divided into corners. There were the two bed-corners, which were lounge-corners during the day; the afternoon-tea corner, with a piece or two of antique furniture and some old silk hangings, where on high afternoons tea was given to droves of visitors; and there was the culinary corner, with spirit-lamps, gas-rings, kettles, and a bowl or two over which you might spend a couple of arduous hours in ineffectually whipping up a mayonnaise for an impromptu lunch. Artistic operations were carried out in the middle of the studio, not too far from the stove, which never went out from November to May. A large mirror hung paramount on one wall. The remaining spaces of the studio were filled with old easels, canvases, old frames, old costumes and multifarious other properties for pictures, trunks, lamps, boards, tables, and bric-à-brac bought at the Ham-and-Old-Iron Fair. There were a million objects in the studio, and their situations had to be, and were, learnt off by heart. The scene of the toilette was a small attached chamber.

The housekeeping combined the simplicity of the early Christians with the efficient organising of the twentieth century. It began at about half-past seven, when unseen but heard beings left fresh rolls and the New York Herald or the Daily Mail at the studio door. You made your own bed, just as you cleaned your own boots or washed your own face. The larder consisted of tins of coffee, tea, sugar, and cakes, with an intermittent supply of butter and lemons. The infusing of tea and coffee was practised in perfection. It mattered not in the least whether toilette or breakfast came first, but it was exceedingly important that the care of the stove should precede both. Between ten and eleven the concierge’s wife arrived with tools and utensils; she swept and dusted under a considerable percentage of the million objects—and the responsibilities of housekeeping were finished until the next day, for afternoon tea, if it occurred, was a diversion and not a toil.

A great expanse of twelve to fifteen hours lay in front of you. It was not uncomfortably and unchangeably cut into fixed portions by the incidence of lunch and dinner. You ate when you felt inclined to eat, and nearly always at restaurants where you met your acquaintances. Meals were the least important happenings of the day. You had no reliable watch, and you needed none, for you had no fixed programme. You worked till you had had enough of work. You went forth into the world exactly when the idea took you. If you were bored, you found a friend and went to sit in a café. You were ready for anything. The word “rule” had been omitted from your dictionary. You retired to bed when the still small voice within murmured that there was naught else to do. You woke up in the morning amid cups and saucers, lingerie, masterpieces, and boots. And the next day was the same. All the days were the same. Weeks passed with inexpressible rapidity, and all things beyond the Quarter had the quality of vague murmurings and noises behind the scenes.

May had come. Audrey and Miss Ingate had lived in the studio for six months before they realised that they had settled down there and that habits had been formed. Still, they had accomplished something. Miss Ingate had gone back into oils and was attending life classes, and Audrey, by terrible application and by sitting daily at the feet of an oldish lady in black, and by refusing to speak English between breakfast and dinner, had acquired a good accent and much fluency in the French tongue. Now, when she spoke French, she thought in French, and she was extremely proud of the achievement. Also she was acquainted with the names and styles of all known modern painters from pointillistes to cubistes, and, indeed, with the latest eccentricities in all the arts. She could tell who was immortal, and she was fully aware that there was no real painting in England. In brief, she was perhaps more Parisian even than she had hoped. She had absorbed Paris into her system. It was still not the Paris of her early fancy; in particular, it lacked elegance; but it richly satisfied her.

She had on this afternoon of young May an appointment with a young man. And the appointment seemed quite natural, causing no inward disturbance. Less than ever could she understand her father’s ukases against young men and against every form of self-indulgence. Now, when she had the idea of doing a thing, she merely did it. Her instincts were her only guide, and, though her instincts were often highly complex, they seldom puzzled her. The old instinct that the desire to do a thing was a sufficient reason against doing it, had expired. For many weeks she had lived with a secret fear that such unbridled conduct must lead to terrible catastrophes, but as nothing happened this fear also expired. She was constantly with young men, and often with men not young; she liked it, but just as much she liked being with women. She never had any difficulties with men. Miss Thompkins insinuated at intervals that she flirted, but she had the sharpest contempt for flirtation, and as a practice put it on a level with embezzlement or arson. Miss Thompkins, however, kept on insinuating. Audrey regarded herself as decidedly wiser than Miss Thompkins. Her opinions on vital matters changed almost weekly, but she was always absolutely sure that the new opinion was final and incontrovertible. Her scorn of the old English Audrey, though concealed, was terrific.

And it is to be remembered that she was a widow. She was never half a second late, now, in replying when addressed as “Mrs. Moncreiff.” Frequently she thought that she in fact was a widow. Widowhood was a very advantageous state. It had a free pass to all affairs of interest. It opened wide the door of the world. It recked nothing of girlish codes. It abolished discussions concerning conventional propriety. Its chief defect, for Audrey, was that if she met another widow, or even a married woman, she had to take heed lest she stumbled. Fortunately, neither widows nor wives were very prevalent in the Quarter. And Audrey had attained skill in the use of the state of widowhood. She told no more infantile perilous tales about husbands who ate peas with a knife. In her thankfulness that the tyrannic Rosamund had gone to Germany, and that Madame Piriac had vanished back into unknown Paris, Audrey was at pains to take to heart the lesson of a semi-hysterical blunder.

She descended the dark, dusty oak stairs utterly content. And at the door of the gloomy den of the concierge the concierge’s wife was standing. She was a new wife, the young mate of a middle-aged husband, and she had only been illuminating the den (which was kitchen, parlour, and bedroom in a space of ten feet by eight) for about a month. She was plump and pretty, and also she was fair, which was unusual for a Frenchwoman. She wore a striped frock and a little black apron, and her yellow hair was waved with art. Audrey offered her the key of the studio with a smile, and, as Audrey expected, the concierge’s wife began to chatter. The concierge’s wife loved to chatter with Anglo-Saxon tenants, and she specially enjoyed chattering with Audrey, because of the superior quality of Audrey’s French and of her tips. Audrey listened, proud because she could understand so well and answer so fluently.

The sun, which in May shone on the courtyard for about forty minutes in the afternoon on clear days, caught these two creatures in the same beam. They made a delicious sight—Audrey dark, with her large forehead and negligible nose, and the concierge’s wife rather doll-like in the regularity of her features. They were delicious not only because of their varied charm, but because they were so absurdly wise and omniscient, and because they had come to settled conclusions about every kind of worldly problem. Youth and vitality equalised their ranks, and the fact that Audrey possessed many ascertained ancestors, and a part of the earth’s surface, and much money, and that the concierge’s wife possessed nothing but herself and a few bits of furniture, was not of the slightest importance.

The concierge’s wife, after curiosity concerning tennis, grew confidential about herself, and more confidential. And at last she lowered her tones, and with sparkling eyes communicated information to Audrey in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

“Oh! truly? I must go,” hastily said Audrey, blushing, and off she ran, reduced in an instant to the schoolgirl. Her departure was a retreat. These occasional discomfitures made a faint blot on the excellence of being a widow.

THE SWOON

In the north-east corner of the Luxembourg Gardens, where the lawn-tennis courts were permitted by a public authority which was strangely impartial and cosmopolitan in the matter of games, Miss Ingate sat sketching a group of statuary with the Rue de Vaugirard behind it. She was sketching in the orthodox way, on the orthodox stool, with the orthodox combined paint-box and easel, and the orthodox police permit in the cover of the box.

The bright and warm weather was tonic; it accounted for the whole temperament of Parisians. Under such a sky, with such a delicate pricking vitalisation in the air, it was impossible not to be Parisian. The trees, all arranged in beautiful perspectives, were coming into leaf, and through their screens could be seen everywhere children shouting as they played at ball and top, and both kinds of nurses, and scores of perambulators and mothers, and a few couples dallying with their sensations, and old men reading papers, and old women knitting and relating anecdotes or entire histories. And nobody was curious beyond his own group. The people were perfectly at home in this grandiose setting of gardens and fountains and grey palaces, with theatres, boulevards and the odour and roar of motor-buses just beyond the palisades. And Miss Ingate in the exciting sunshine gazed around with her subdued Essex grin, as if saying: “It’s the most topsy-turvy planet that I was ever on, and why am I, of all people, trying to make this canvas look like a piece of sculpture and a street?”

“Now, Miss Ingate,” said tall red-haired Tommy, who was standing over her. “Before you go any farther, do look at the line of roofs and see how interesting it is; it’s really full of interest. And you’ve simply not got on speaking terms with it yet.”

“No more I have! No more I have!” cried Miss Ingate, glancing round at Audrey, who was swinging her racket. “Thank you, Tommy. I ought to have thought of it for my own sake, because roofs are so much easier than statues, and I must get an effect somewhere, mustn’t I?”

Tommy winked at Audrey. But Tommy’s wink was as naught to the great invisible wink of Miss Ingate, the everlasting wink that derided the universe and the sun himself.

Then Musa appeared, with paraphernalia, at the end of a path. Accompanying him was a specimen of the creature known on tennis lawns as “a fourth.” He was almost nameless, tall, very young, with the seedlings of a moustache and a space of nude calf between his knickerbockers and his socks. He was very ceremonious, shy, ungainly and blushful. He played a fair-to-middling game; and nothing more need be said of him.

Musa by contrast was an accomplished man of the world, and the fact that the fourth obviously regarded him as a hero helped Musa to behave in a manner satisfactory to himself in front of these English and American women, so strange, so exotic, so kind, and so disconcerting. Musa looked upon Britain as a romantic isle where people died for love. And as for America, in his mind it was as sinister, as wondrous, and as fatal as the Indies might seem to a bank clerk in Bradford. He had need of every moral assistance in this or any other social ordeal. For, though he was still the greatest violinist in Paris, and perhaps in the world, he could not yet prove this profound truth by the only demonstration which the world accepts.

If he played in studios he was idolised. If he played at small concerts in unknown halls he was received with rapture. But he was never lionised. The great concert halls never saw him on their platforms; his name was never in the newspapers; and hospitable personages never fought together for his presence at their tables, even if occasionally they invited him to perform for charity in return for a glass of claret and a sandwich. Monsieur Dauphin had attempted to force the invisible barriers for him, but without success. All his admirers in the Quarter stuck to it that he was in the rank of Kreisler and Ysaye; at the same time they were annoyed with him inasmuch as he did not force the world to acknowledge the prophetic good taste of the Quarter. And Musa made mistakes. He ought to have arrived at studios in a magnificent automobile, and to have given superb and uproarious repasts, and to have rendered innumerable women exquisitely unhappy. Whereas he arrived by tube or bus, never offered hospitality of any sort, and was like a cat with women. Hence the attitude of the Quarter was patronising, as if the Quarter had said: “Yes, he is the greatest violinist in Paris and perhaps in the world; but that’s all, and it isn’t enough.”

The young man and the boy made ready for the game as for a gladiatorial display. Their frowning seriousness proved that they had comprehended the true British idea of sport. Musa came round the net to Audrey’s side, but Audrey said in French:

“Miss Thompkins and I will play together. See, we are going to beat you and Gustave.”

Musa retired. A few indifferent spectators had collected. Gustave, the fourth, had to serve.

“Play!” he muttered, in a thick and threatening voice, whose depth was the measure of his nervousness.

He served a double fault to Tommy, and then a fault to Audrey. The fourth ball he got over. Audrey played it. The two males rushed with appalling force together on the centre line in pursuit, and a terrible collision occurred. Musa fell away from Gustave as from a wall. When he arose out of the pebbly dust his right arm hung very limp from the shoulder. No sooner had he risen than he sank again, and the blood began to leave his face, and his eyes closed. The fourth, having recovered from the collision, knelt down by his side, and gazed earnestly at him. Tommy and Audrey hurried towards the statuesque group, and Audrey was thinking: “Why did I refuse to let him play with me? If he had played with me there would have been no accident.” She reproached herself because she well knew that only out of the most absurd contrariness had she repulsed Musa. Or was it that she had repulsed him from fear of something that Tommy might say or look?

In a few seconds, strongly drawn by this marvellous piece of luck, promenaders were darting with joyous rapidity from north, south, east and west to witness the tragedy. There were nurses with coloured streamers six feet long, lusty children, errand boys, lads, and sundry nondescript men, some of whom carefully folded up their newspapers as they hurried to the cynosure. They beheld the body as though it were a corpse, and the corpse of an enemy; they formulated and discussed theories of the event; they examined minutely the rackets which had been thrown on the ground. They were exercising the immemorial rights of unmoved curiosity; they held themselves as indifferent as gods, and the murmur of their impartial voices floated soothingly over Musa, and the shadow of their active profiles covered him from the sparkling sunshine. Somebody mentioned policemen, in the plural, but none came. All remarked in turn that the ladies were English, as though that were a sufficient explanation of the whole affair.

No one said:

“It is Musa, the greatest violinist in Paris and perhaps in Europe.”

Desperately Audrey stooped and seized Musa beneath the armpits to lift him to a sitting position.

“You’d better leave him alone,” said Tommy, with a kind of ironic warning and innuendo.

But Audrey still struggled with the mass, convinced that she was showing initiative and firmness of character. The fourth with fierce vigour began to aid her, and another youth from the crowd was joining the enterprise when Miss Ingate arrived from her stool.

“Drop him, you silly little thing!” adjured Miss Ingate. “Instead of lifting his head you ought to lift his feet.”

Audrey stared uncertain for a moment, and then let the mass subside. Whereupon Miss Ingate with all her strength lifted both legs to the height of her waist, giving Musa the appearance of a wheelless barrow.

“You want to let the blood run into his head,” said Miss Ingate with a self-conscious grin at the increasing crowd. “People only faint because the blood leaves their heads—that’s why they go pale.”

Musa’s cheeks showed a tinge of red. You could almost see the precious blood being decanted by Miss Ingate out of the man’s feet into his head. In a minute he opened his eyes. Miss Ingate lowered the legs.

“It was only the pain that made him feel queer,” she said.

The episode was over, and the crowd very gradually and reluctantly scattered, disappointed at the lack of a fatal conclusion. Musa stood up, smiling apologetically, and Audrey supported him by the left arm, for the right could not be touched.

“Hadn’t you better take him home, Mrs. Moncreiff?” Tommy suggested. “You can get a taxi here in the Rue de Vaugirard.” She did not smile, but her green eyes glinted.

“Yes, I will,” said Audrey curtly.

And Tommy’s eyes glinted still more.

“And I shall get a doctor,” said Audrey. “His arm may be broken.”

“I should,” Tommy concurred with gravity.

“Well, if it is, I can’t set it,” said Miss Ingate quizzically. “I was getting on so well with the high lights on that statue. I’ll come along back to the studio in about half an hour.”

The fourth, who had been hovering near like a criminal magnetised by his crime, bounded off furiously at the suggestion that he should stop a taxi at the entrance to the gardens.

“I hope he has broken his arm and he can never play any more,” thought Audrey, astoundingly, as she and the fourth helped pale Musa into the open taxi. “It will just serve those two right.” She meant Miss Ingate and Tommy.

No sooner did the taxi start than Musa began to cry. He did not seem to care that he was in the midst of a busy street, with a piquant widow by his side.

MISS INGATE POINTS OUT THE DOOR

“Why did you cry this afternoon, Musa?”

Musa made no reply.

Audrey was lighting the big lamp in the Moncreiff-Ingate studio. It made exactly the same moon as it had made on the night in the previous autumn when Audrey had first seen it. She had brought Musa to the studio because she did not care to take him to his own lodgings. (As a fact, nobody that she knew, except Musa, had ever seen Musa’s lodgings.) This was almost the first moment they had had to themselves since the visit of the little American doctor from the Rue Servandoni. The rumour of Musa’s misfortune had spread through the Quarter like the smell of a fire, and various persons of both sexes had called to inspect, to sympathise, and to take tea, which Audrey was continually making throughout the late afternoon. Musa had had an egg for his tea, and more than one girl had helped to spread the yolk and the white on pieces of bread-and-butter, for the victim of destiny had his right arm in a sling. Audrey had let them do it, as a mother patronisingly lets her friends amuse her baby.

In the end they had all gone; Tommy had enigmatically looked in and gone, and Miss Ingate had gone to dine at the favourite restaurant of the hour in the Rue Léopold Robert. Audrey had refused to go, asserting that which was not true; namely, that she had had an enormous tea, including far too many petits fours. Miss Ingate in departing had given a glance at her sketch (fixed on the easel), and another at Audrey, and another at Musa, all equally ironic and kindly.

Musa also had declined dinner, but he had done nothing to indicate that he meant to leave. He sat mournful and passive in a basket chair, his sling making a patch of white in the gloom. The truth was that he suffered from a disability not uncommon among certain natures: he did not know how to go. He could arrive with ease, but he was no expert at vanishing. Audrey was troubled. As suited her age and condition, she was apt to feel the responsibility of the whole universe. She knew that she was responsible for Musa’s accident, and now she was beginning to be aware that she was responsible for his future as well. She was sure that he needed encouragement and guidance. She pictured him with his fiddle under his chin, masterful, confident, miraculous, throwing a spell over everyone within earshot. But actually she saw him listless and vanquished in the basket chair, and she perceived that only a strongly influential and determined woman, such as herself, could save him from disaster. No man could do it. His tears had shaken her. She was willing to make allowances for a foreigner, but she had never seen a man cry before, and the spectacle was very disturbing. It inspired her with a fear that even she could not be the salvation of Musa.

“I demanded something of you,” she said, after lowering the wick of the lamp to exactly the right point, and staring at it for a greater length of time than was necessary or even seemly. She spoke French, and as she listened to her French accent she heard that it was good.

“I am done for!” came the mournful voice of Musa out of the obscurity behind the lamp.

“What! You are done for? But you know what the doctor said. He said no bone was broken. Only a little strain, and the pain from your——” Admirable though her French accent was, she could not think of the French word for “funny-bone.” Indeed she had never learnt it. So she said it in English. Musa knew not what she meant, and thus a slight chasm was opened between them which neither could bridge. She finished: “In one week you are going to be able to play again.”

Musa shook his head.

Relieved as she was to discover that Musa had cried because he was done for, and not because he was hurt, she was still worried by his want of elasticity, of resiliency. Nevertheless she was agreeably worried. The doctor had disappointed her by his light optimism, but he could not smile away Musa’s moral indisposition. The large vagueness of the studio, the very faint twilight still showing through the great window, the silence and intimacy, the sounds of the French language, the gleam of the white sling, all combined to permeate her with delicious melancholy. And not for everlasting bliss would she have had Musa strong, obstinate, and certain of success.

“A week!” he murmured. “It is for ever. A week of practice lost is eternally lost. And on Wednesday one had invited me to play at Foa’s. And I cannot.”

“Foa? Who is Foa?”

“What! You do not know Foa? In order to succeed it is necessary, it is essential, to play at Foa’s. That alone gives the cachet. Dauphin told me last week. He arranged it. After having played at Foa’s all is possible. Dauphin was about to abandon me when he met Foa. Now I am ruined. This afternoon after the tennis I was going to Durand’s to get the new Caprice of Roussel—he is an intimate friend of Foa. I should have studied it in five days. They would have been ravished by the attention .... But why talk I thus? No, I could not have played Caprice to please them. I am cursed. I will never again touch the violin, I swear it. What am I? Do I not live on the money lent to me regularly by Mademoiselle Thompkins and Mademoiselle Nickall?”

“You don’t, Musa?” Audrey burst out in English.

“Yes, yes!” said Musa violently. “But last month, from Mademoiselle Nickall—nothing! She is in London; she forgets. It is better like that. Soon I shall be playing in the Opéra orchestra, fourth desk, one hundred francs a month. That will be the end. There can be no other.”

Instead of admiring the secret charity of Tommy and Nick, which she had never suspected, Audrey was very annoyed by it. She detested it and resented it. And especially the charity of Miss Thompkins. She considered that from a woman with eyes and innuendoes like Tommy’s charity amounted to a sneer.

“It is extremely unsatisfactory,” she said, dropping on to Miss Ingate’s sofa.

Not another word was spoken. Audrey tapped her foot. Musa creaked in the basket chair. He avoided her eyes, but occasionally she glared at him like a schoolmistress. Then her gaze softened—he looked so ill, so helpless, so hopeless. She wanted to light a cigarette for him, but she was somehow bound to the sofa. She wanted him to go—she hated the prospect of his going. He could not possibly go, alone, to his solitary room. Who would tend him, soothe him, put him to bed? He was an infant....

Then, after a long while, Miss Ingate entered sharply. Audrey coughed and sprang up.

“Oh!” ejaculated Miss Ingate.

“I—I think I shall just change my boots,” said Audrey, smoothing out the short white skirt. And she disappeared into the dressing-room that gave on to the studio.

As soon as she was gone, Miss Ingate went close up to Musa’s chair. He had not moved.

She said, smiling, with the corners of her mouth well down:

“Do you see that door, young man?”

And she indicated the door.

When Audrey came back into the studio.

“Audrey,” cried Miss Ingate shrilly. “What you been doing to Musa? As soon as you went out he up vehy quickly and ran away.”

At this information Audrey was more obviously troubled and dashed than Miss Ingate had ever seen her, in Paris. She made no answer at all. Fortunately, lying on the table in front of the mirror was a letter for Miss Ingate which had arrived by the evening post. Audrey went for it, pretending to search, and then handed it over with a casual gesture.

“It looks as if it was from Nick,” she murmured.

Miss Ingate, as she was putting on her spectacles, remarked:

“I hope you weren’t hurt—me not coming with you and Musa in the taxi from the gardens this afternoon, dear.”

“Me? Oh no!”

“It wasn’t that I was so vehy interested in my sketch. But to my mind there’s nothing more ridiculous than several women all looking after one man. Miss Thompkins thought so, too.”

“Oh! Did she?... What does Nick say?”

Miss Ingate had put the letter flat on the table in the full glare of the lamp, and was leaning over it, her grey hair brilliantly illuminated. Audrey kept in the shadow and in the distance. Miss Ingate had a habit of reading to herself under her breath. She read slowly, and turned pages over with a deliberate movement.

“Well,” said Miss Ingate twisting her head sideways so as to see Audrey standing like a ghost afar off. “Well, she has been going it! She’s broken a window in Oxford Street with a hammer; she had one night in the cells for that. And she’d have had to go to prison altogether only some unknown body paid the fine for her. She says: ’There are some mean persons in the world, and he was one. I feel sure it was a man, and an American, too. The owners of the shops are going to bring a law action against me for the value of the plate-glass. It is such fun. And our leaders are splendid and so in earnest. They say we are doing a great historical work, and we are. The London correspondent of the New York Times interviewed me because I am American. I did not want to be interviewed, but our instructions are—never to avoid publicity. There is to be no more window breaking for the present. Something new is being arranged. The hammer is so heavy, and sometimes the first blow does not break the window. The situation is very serious, and the Government is at its wits’ end. This we know. We have our agents everywhere. All the most thoughtful people are strongly in favour of votes for women; but of course some of them are afraid of our methods. This only shows that they have not learnt the lessons of history. I wonder that you and dear Mrs. Moncreiff do not come and help. Many women ask after you, and everybody at Kingsway is very curious to know Mrs. Moncreiff. Since Mrs. Burke’s death, Betty has taken rooms in this house, but perhaps Tommy has told you this already. If so, excuse. Betty’s health is very bad since they let her out last. With regard to the rent, will you pay the next quarter direct to the concierge yourselves? It will save so much trouble. I must tell you——’”

Slowly Audrey moved up to the table and leaned over the letter by Miss Ingate’s side.

“So you see!” said Miss Ingate. “Well, we must show it to Tommy in the morning. ‘Not learnt the lessons of history,’ eh? I know who’s been talking to Nick. I know as well as if I could hear them speaking.”

“Do you think we ought to go to London?” Audrey demanded bluntly.

“Well,” Miss Ingate answered, with impartial irony on her long upper lip. “I don’t know. Of course I played the organ all the way down Regent Street. I feel very strongly about votes for women, and once when I was helping in the night and day vigil at the House of Commons and some Ministers came out smoking their cigahs and asked us how we liked it, I was vehy, vehy angry. However, the next morning I had a cigarette myself and felt better. But I’m not a professional reformer, like a lot of them are at Kingsway. It isn’t my meat and drink. And I don’t think it matters much whether we get the vote next year or in ten years. I’m Winifred Ingate before I’m anything else. And so long as I’m pretty comfortable no one’s going to make me believe that the world’s coming to an end. I know one thing—if we did get the vote it would take me all my time to keep most of the women I know from, voting for something silly.”

“Winnie,” said Audrey. “You’re very sensible sometimes.”

“I’m always very sensible,” Winnie retorted, “until I get nervous. Then I’m apt to skid.”

Without more words they transformed the studio, by a few magical strokes, from a drawing-room into a bedroom. Audrey, the last to retire, extinguished the lamp, and tripped to her bed behind her screen. Only a few slight movements disturbed the silence.

“Winnie,” said Audrey suddenly. “I do believe you’re one of those awful people who compromise. You’re always right in the middle of the raft.”

But Miss Ingate, being fast asleep, offered no answer.