And once more, as had happened to her so often previously, a sudden uncomfortable sensation, as of being a puppet in unseen hands, a tool in the employ of some powerful organisation, seized her and made her shudder.
If only she could break away from the strange, invisible but strong ties that seemed to bind her to a position she loathed, to hold her in a course which was, she felt, suicidal to her self-respect, and to her hopes of restored happiness with her husband!
And then the poor creature realised, as she had never done before, that to break these ties abruptly would bring her no nearer to Gerard, no nearer to his uncle’s regard, while it would bring upon her the blame of her one woman friend, Mrs. Webster, and certainly the disapproval and resentment of the one man who had done the most to help her—Mr. Candover.
It seemed to her fortunate that, when she reached “The Briars,” only just in time for a late and hurried dinner, she found Mr. Candover himself there to see her.
He had come, he said, to submit to her certain notions of Mademoiselle Laure’s concerning the winter campaign. The Frenchwoman was still in Paris, but she had made extensive purchases of models, and wanted the approval of her nominal chief for certain others.
Audrey, however, was tired, impatient, petulant.
“Why does she send you to me?” she asked. “Surely she knows more about these things than I do, and I gave her carte blanche to buy what she thought proper. Besides——”
“Well,” interrupted Mr. Candover quickly, “I think you ought to be consulted. You have excellent taste, and——”
“Oh, no, I know nothing and care nothing about these things! I wear the dresses she tells me to wear, I recommend those she advises me to recommend. I am a mere puppet, without a will of my own or a word to say on my own account!”
Mr. Candover took her petulance sublimely. He was as patient as a lamb.