All the women turned to glance at the name through the window, and some of them murmured sympathetic and interested exclamations and bright hopes.  There were five women:  Miss Thompkins, Miss Nickall, Madame Piriac, Miss Ingate and Audrey.  And there was one man—­Mr. Gilman.  And the six were seated at a round table in the historic Parisian restaurant.  Mr. Gilman had the air triumphant, and he was entitled to it.  The supreme moment of his triumph had come.  Having given a luncheon to these ladies, he had just asked, with due high negligence, for the bill.  If there was one matter in which Mr. Gilman was a truly great expert, it was the matter of giving a meal in a restaurant.  He knew how to dress for such an affair—­with strict conventionality but a touch of devil-may-care youthfulness in the necktie.  He knew how to choose the restaurant; he had about half a dozen in his repertoire—­all of the first order and for the most part combining the exclusive with the amusing—­entirely different in kind from the pandemonium where Audrey had eaten on the night of her first arrival in Paris; he knew how to get the best out of head-waiters and waiters, who in these restaurants were not head-waiters and waiters but worldly priests and acolytes; his profound knowledge of cookery sprang from a genuine interest in his stomach, and he could compose a menu in a fashion to command the respect of head-waiters and to excite the envy of musicians composing a sonata; he had the wit to look in early and see to the flowers; above all he was aware what women liked in the way of wine, and since this was never what he liked in the way of wine, he would always command a half-bottle of the extra dry for himself, but would have it manipulated with such discretion that not a guest could notice it.  He paid lavishly and willingly, convinced by hard experience that the best is inestimable, but he felt too that the best was really quite cheap, for he knew that there were imperfectly educated people in the world who thought nothing of paying the price of a good meal for a mere engraving or a bit of china.  Withal, he never expected his guests truly to appreciate the marvels he offered them.  They could not, or very rarely.  Their twittering ecstatic praise, which was without understanding, sufficed for him, though sometimes he would give gentle diffident instruction.  This trait in him was very attractive, proving the genuineness of his modesty.

The luncheon was partly to celebrate the return of various persons to Paris, but chiefly in honour of Musa’s concert.  Musa could not be present, for distinguished public performers do not show themselves on the day of an appearance.  Mr. Gilman had learnt this from Madame Piriac, whom he had consulted as to the list of guests.  It is to be said that he bore the absence of Musa from his table with stoicism.  For the rest, Madame Piriac knew that he wanted no other men, and she had suggested none.  She had assumed that he desired Audrey, and had pointed out