“Nor I,” said Audrey.
“The day after to-morrow, then. I will send my auto. What address? Half-past eleven. That goes? In any case, I insist. Be kind! Be kind!”
Audrey blushed. Half the foyer was staring at the group. She was flattered. She saw herself remarkable. She thought she would look more particularly, with perfect detachment, at the mirror that night, in order to decide whether her appearance was as striking, as original, as distinguished, as Dauphin’s attitude implied. There must surely be something in it.
“About that advice—may I call to-morrow?” It was Mr. Gilman’s voice at her elbow.
“Advice?” She had forgotten her announced intention of asking his advice. (The subject was to be Zacatecas.) “Oh, yes. How nice of you! Please do call. Come for tea.” She was delightful to him, but at the same time there was in her tone a little of the condescending casualness proper to the tone of a girl openly admired by the confidant and painter of princesses and archduchesses, the man who treated all plain women and women past the prime with a desolating indifference.
She thought:
“I am a rotten little snob.”
Mr. Gilman gave thanksgivings and departed, explaining that he must return to Madame Piriac.
Foa and Dauphin and the Oriental resumed the argument about Musa’s talent and the concert. Miquette would say nothing as to the success of the concert. Foa asserted that the concert was not and would not be a success. Dauphin pooh-poohed and insisted vehemently that the success was unmistakable and increasing. Moreover, he criticised the hall, the choice of programme, the orchestra, the conductor. “I discovered Musa,” said he. “I have always said that he is a great concert player, and that he is destined for a great world-success, and to-night I am more sure of it than ever.” Whereupon Madame Foa said with much sympathy that she hoped it was so, and Foa said: “You create illusions for yourself, on purpose.” Dauphin bore him down with wavy gestures and warm cries of “No! No! No!” And he appealed to Audrey as-a woman incapable of illusions. And Audrey agreed with Dauphin. And while she was agreeing she kept saying to herself: “Why do I pretend to agree with him? He is not sincere. He knows he is not sincere. We all know—except perhaps Winnie Ingate. The concert is a failure. If it were not a failure, Madame Foa would not be so sympathetic. She is more subtle even than Madame Piriac. I shall never be subtle like that. I wish I could be. I wish I was at Moze. I am too Essex for all this. And Winnie here is too comic for words.”
An aged and repellent Jew came into sight. He raised Madame Foa’s hand to his odious lips and kissed it, and Audrey wondered how Madame Foa could tolerate the formality.