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 sha