hing. 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.

CHAPTER XI

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 cafe-restaurant where they had eaten