“What does she say? Skeed—skeed?” demanded the host.
Audrey interpreted. Shouts of laughter!
“Oh! These English! These Englishwomen!” said the host. “I adore them. I adore them all. They alone exist.”
“It’s vehy serious!” protested Miss Ingate. “It’s vehy serious!”
“We shall go to London to-morrow, shan’t we, Winnie?” said Audrey across the table to her.
“Yes,” agreed Miss Ingate. “I think we ought. We’re as free as birds. When the police have broken our arms we can come back to Paris to recover. I shan’t feel comfortable until I’ve been and had my arm broken—it’s vehy serious.”
“What does she say? What is it that she says?” from the host.
More interpretation. More laughter, but this time an impressed laughter. And Audrey perceived that just as she was regarding the Polish woman as romantic, so the whole company was regarding herself and Miss Ingate as romantic. She could feel the polite, curious eyes of twenty men upon her; and her mind seemed to stiffen into a formidable resolve. She grew conscious of the lifting of all depression, all anxiety. Her conscience was at rest. She had been thinking for more than a week past: “I ought to go to London.” How often had she not said to herself: “If any woman should be in this movement, I should be in this movement. I am a coward as long as I stay here, dallying my time away.” Now the decision was made, absolutely.
The Oriental musical critic turned to glance upward behind his chair. Then he vacated it. The next instant Madame Piriac was sitting in his place.
She said: