ement 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."

CHAPTER XVI

ROBES

On the second following Friday evening, Audrey's suite of rooms at the
Hotel du Danube glowed in every corner with pink-shaded electricity.
According to what Audrey had everywhere observed to be the French custom,
there was in this flat the minimum of corridor and the maximum of doors.
Each room communicated directly with all the other rooms. The doors were
open, and three women continually in a feverish elation passed to and fro.
Empire chairs and sofas were covered with rich garments of every colour and
form and material, from the transparent blue silk _matinee_ to the dark
heavy cloak of velvet ornamented with fur. The place was in fact very like
the showrooms of a cosmopolitan dressmaker after a vast trying-on. Sundry
cosmopolitan dressmakers had contributed to the rich confusion. None had
hesitated for an instant to execute Audrey's commands. They had all been
waiting, apparently since the beginning of time, to serve her. All that
district of Paris had been thus waiting. The flat had been waiting, the
automobile had been waiting, the chauffeur had been waiting, and purveyors
of every sort. A word from her seemed to have released them from an
enchantment. For the most part they were strange people, these magical
attendants, never mentioning money, but rather deprecating the sound of it,
and content to supply nothing but the finest productions of their
unquestionable genius. Still, Audrey reckoned that she owed about
twenty-five thousand francs to Paris.

The third woman was the maid, Elise. The hotel had invented and delivered
Elise, and thereafter seemed easier in its mind. Elise was thirty years of