is what she cannot see.  Her genius blinds her.  You say I am a friend of Madame Rosamund.  I am.  Madame Rosamund was educated in Paris, at the same school as my aunt and myself.  But I have never helped her in her mission.  And I never will.  My vocation is elsewhere.  When she fled over here from the English police, she came to me.  I received her.  She asked me to drive her to certain addresses.  I did so.  She was my guest.  I surrounded her with all that she had abandoned, all that her genius had forced her to abandon.  But I never spoke to her of her work, nor she to me of it.  Still, I dare to think that I was of some value to the woman in Madame Rosamund.”

Audrey felt very young and awkward and defiant.  She felt defiant because Madame Piriac had impressed her, and she was determined not to be impressed.

“So you wanted to tell me all this,” said she, putting down her glass, with the straws in it, on a small round table laden with tiny figures in silver.  “Why did you want to tell me, Madame?”

“I wanted to tell you because I want you to do nothing that you will regret.  You greatly interested me the moment I saw you.  And when I saw you in that studio, in that Quarter, I feared for you.”

“Feared what?”

“I feared that you might mistake your vocation—­that vocation which is so clearly written on your face.  I saw a woman young and free and rich, and I was afraid that she might waste everything.”

“But do you know anything about me?”

Madame Piriac paused before replying.

“Nothing but what I see.  But I see that you are in a high degree what all women are to a greater extent than men—­an individualist.  You know the feeling that comes over a woman in hours of complete intimacy with a man?  You know what I mean?”

“Oh, yes!” Audrey agreed, blushing.

“In those moments we perceive that only the individual counts with us.  And with you, above all, the individual should count.  Unless you use your youth and your freedom and your money for some individual, you will never be content; you will eternally regret.  All that is in your face.”

Audrey blushed more, thinking of certain plans formed in that head of hers.  She said nothing.  She was both very pleased and very exasperated.

“I have a relative in England, a young girl,” Madame Piriac proceeded, “in some unpronounceable county.  We write to each other.  She is excessively English.”

Audrey was scarlet.  Several times during the sojourn in Paris she had sent letters (to Madame Piriac) to be posted in Essex by Mr. Foulger.  These letters were full of quaint inventions about winter life in Essex, and other matters.

Madame Piriac, looking reflectively at the red embers of wood in the grate, went on: 

“She says she may come to Paris soon.  I have often asked her to come, but she has refused.  Perhaps next month I shall go to England to fetch her.  I should like her to know you—­very much.  She is younger than you are, but only a little, I think.”