Dauphin was magnificent, playing the part of the opulent painter a la mode with the most finished skill, the most splendid richness of detail.  It was notorious that in the evenings he wore the finest silk shirts in Paris, and his waistcoat was designed to give scope to these shirts.  He might have come—­he probably had come—­straight from the bower of archduchesses; but he produced in Audrey the illusion that archduchesses were a trifle compared to herself.  He had not seen her for a long time.  Gazing at her, he breathed relief; all his features indicated the sudden, unexpected assuaging of eternal and intense desires.  He might have been travelling through the desert for many days and she might have been the oasis—­the pool of living water and the palm.

“Now—­like that!  Just like that!” he said, holding her hand and, as it were, hypnotising her in the pose in which she happened to be.  He looked hard at her.  “It is unique.  Madame, where did you find that dress?”

“Callot,” answered Audrey submissively.

“I thought so.  Well, Madame, I can wait no more.  I will wait no more.  It is Dauphin who implores you to come to his studio.  To come—­it is your duty.  Madame Foa, you will bring her.  I count on you absolutely to bring her.  Even if it is only to be a sketch—­the merest hint.  But I must do it.”

“Oh, yes, Madame,” said Madame Foa with all the Italian charm.  “Dauphin must paint you.  The contrary is unthinkable.  My husband and I have often said so.”

“To-morrow?” Dauphin suggested.

“Ah!  To-morrow, my little Dauphin, I cannot,” said Madame Foa.

“Nor I,” said Audrey.

“The day after to-morrow, then.  I will send my auto.  What address?  Half-past eleven.  That goes?  In any case, I insist.  Be kind!  Be kind!”

Audrey blushed.  Half the foyer was staring at the group.  She was flattered.  She saw herself remarkable.  She thought she would look more particularly, with perfect detachment, at the mirror that night, in order to decide whether her appearance was as striking, as original, as distinguished, as Dauphin’s attitude implied.  There must surely be something in it.

“About that advice—­may I call to-morrow?” It was Mr. Gilman’s voice at her elbow.

“Advice?” She had forgotten her announced intention of asking his advice.  (The subject was to be Zacatecas.) “Oh, yes.  How nice of you!  Please do call.  Come for tea.”  She was delightful to him, but at the same time there was in her tone a little of the condescending casualness proper to the tone of a girl openly admired by the confidant and painter of princesses and archduchesses, the man who treated all plain women and women past the prime with a desolating indifference.

She thought: 

“I am a rotten little snob.”

Mr. Gilman gave thanksgivings and departed, explaining that he must return to Madame Piriac.