When the taxi turned again into the Rue de la Paix, she thought:
“The car will not be waiting. It would be too lovely if it were.”
But there the car was, huge, glistening, unreal, incredible. And a chauffeur gloved and liveried in brown, to match the car, stood by its side, and the shopman was at the door, holding the Caprice of Roussel and the old handbag ready in his hand.
“Here is Madame,” said he.
The chauffeur saluted.
The car was closed.
“Will Madame have the carriage open or closed?”
“Closed.”
Having paid the taxi-driver, Audrey entered the car, and as she did so, she threw over her shoulder:
“Hôtel du Danube.”