y 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 cafes, 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 facade. She had found the address, and another one, in the telephone
book at the Cafe 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 actua