treated him.  She had undertaken the enterprise of launching him on a tremendous artistic career, and she must carry it through.  She wanted to make a neat, clean job of the launching, and she would do it dispassionately, like a good workwoman.  He had admitted—­nay, he had insisted—­that she was necessary to him.  Her pride in that fact had a somewhat superior air.  He might be the most marvellous of violinists, but he was also a child, helpless without her moral support.  She would act accordingly.  It was absurd to be angry with a child, no matter what his vagaries....  At this juncture of her reflections she noticed that Mr. Gilman and Miss Thompkins had quitted the yacht together and were walking seawards.  They seemed very intimate, impregnated with mutual understanding.  And Audrey was sorry that Mr. Gilman was quite so simple, quite so straightforward and honest.

When the dinghy arrived at the sea-wall Audrey won the stalled admiration of the sailor in charge of the boat by pointing at once to the best—­if not the only—­place fit for a landing.  The sailor was by no means accustomed to such flair in a yacht’s guests.  Indeed, it had often astonished him that people who, as a class, had so little notion of how to get into or out of a dinghy could have succeeded, as they all apparently had, in any department of life.

With continuing skill, Audrey guided Madame Piriac over the dyke and past sundry other obstacles, including a watercourse, to a gate in the wall which formed the frontier of the grounds of Flank Hall.  The gate seemed at first to be unopenably fastened, but Audrey showed that she possessed a genius with gates, and opened it with a twist of the hand.  They wandered through a plantation and then through an orchard, and at length saw the house.  There was not a sign of Aguilar, but the unseen yard-dog began to bark, hearing which, Madame Piriac observed in French:  “The property seems a little neglected, but there must be someone at home.”

“Aguilar is bound to come now!” thought Audrey.  “And I am lost!” Then she added to herself:  “And I don’t care if I am lost.  What an unheard-of lark!” And to Madame Piriac she said lightly:  “Well, we must explore.”

The blinds were nearly all up on the garden front.  And one window—­the French window of the drawing-room—­was wide open.

“The crisis will be here in one minute at the latest,” thought Audrey.

“Evidently Miss Moze is at home,” said Madame Piriac, gazing at the house.  “Yes, it is distinguished.  It is what I had expected....  But ought we not to go to the front door?”

“I think we ought,” Audrey agreed.

They went round the side of the house, into the main drive, and without hesitation Madame Piriac rang the front door bell, which they could plainly hear.  “I must have my cards ready,” said she, opening her bag.  “One always hears how exigent you are in England about such details, even in the provinces.  And, indeed, why not?”