“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.”
“I shall be delighted, if I am here,” Audrey stammered, and she rose. “You are a very kind woman. Very, very amiable. You do not know how much I admire you. I wish I was like you. But I am not. You have seen only one side of me. You should see the inside. It is very strange. I must go to London. I am forced to go to London. I should be a coward if I did not go to London. Tell me, is my dress really good? Or is it a deception?”
Madame Piriac smiled, and kissed her on both cheeks.
“It is good,” said Madame Piriac. “But your maid is not all that she ought to be. However, it is good.”
“If you had simply praised it, and only that, I should not have been content,” said Audrey, and kissed Madame Piriac in the English way, the youthful and direct way.