“And why not?  She has Miss Ingate.”

“Yes, worse luck for her!  Winnie would make the most dreadful mess of things if she wasn’t stopped.  If Winnie was right out of it, and Jane Foley had only herself and Aguilar to count on, there might be a chance.  But not else.”

“It is by pure hazard that you are here.  Nobody expected you.  What would this young girl Mees Foley have done if you had not been here?”

“It’s no good wasting time about that, darling, because I am here, don’t you see?” Audrey straightened her shoulders and put her hands behind her back.

“My little one,” said Madame Piriac with a certain solemnity.  “You remember our conversation in my boudoir.  I then told you that you would find yourself in a riot within a month, if you continued your course.  Was I right?  Happily you have escaped from that horrible complication.  Go no farther.  Listen to me.  You were not created for these adventures.  It is impossible that you should be happy in them.”

“But look at Jane Foley,” said Audrey eagerly.  “Is she not happy?  Did you ever see anybody as happy as Jane?  I never did.”

“That is not happiness,” replied Madame Piriac.  “That is exaltation.  It is morbid.  I do not say that it is not right for her.  I do not say that she is not justified, and that that which she represents is not justified.  But I say that a role such as hers is not your role.  To commence, she does not interest herself in men.  For her there are no men in the world—­there are only political enemies.  Do you think I do not know the type?  We have it, chez nous.  It is full of admirable qualities—­but it is not your type.  For you, darling, the world is inhabited principally by men, and the time will come—­perhaps soon—­when for you it will be inhabited principally by one man.  If you remain obdurate, there must inevitably arrive a quarrel between that man and these—­these riotous adventures.”

“No man that I could possibly care for,” Audrey retorted, “would ever object to me having an active interest in—­er—­politics.”

“I agree, darling,” said Madame Piriac.  “He would not object.  It is you who would object.  The quarrel would occur within your own heart.  There are two sorts of women—­individualists and fanatics.  It was always so.  I am a woman, and I know what I’m saying.  So do you.  Well, you belong to the first sort of woman.”

“I don’t,” Audrey protested.  Nevertheless she recollected her thoughts on the previous night, near the binnacle and Mr. Gilman, about the indispensability of a man and about the futility of the state of not owning and possessing a man.  The memory of these thoughts only rendered her more obstinate.

“But you will not have the courage to tell me that you are a fanatic?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“There is a third sort of woman.”

“Darling, believe me, there is not.”