Audrey stood by Musa while he played a dance that nobody danced to, and when he had finished she was rather ashamed, under the curtain of wild cheering, because with her Essex incredulity she had not sufficiently believed in Musa’s greatness.

“Permit your host to introduce himself,” said a voice behind her, not in the correct English of a linguistic Frenchman, but in utterly English English.  She had now descended to the floor of the studio.

Emile Dauphin raised his glossy hat, and then asked to be allowed to put it on again, as the company had decided that it was part of his costume.  He had a delicious smile, at once respectful and intimate.  Audrey had read somewhere that really great men were always simple and unaffected—­indeed that it was often impossible to guess from their demeanour that, etc., etc.—­and this experience of the first celebrity with whom she had ever spoken (except Musa, who was somehow only Musa) confirmed the statement, and confirmed also her young instinctive belief that what is printed must be true.  She was beginning to feel the stealthy on-comings of fatigue, and certainly she was very nervous, but Monsieur Dauphin’s quite particularly sympathetic manner, and her own sudden determination not to be a little blushing fool gave her new power.

“I can’t express to you,” he said, moving towards the dais and mesmerising her to keep by his side.  “I can’t express to you how sorry I was to be so late.”  He made the apology with lightness, but with sincerity.  Audrey knew how polite the French were.  “But truly circumstances were too much for me.  Those two Russian princesses—­they came to me through a mutual friend, a dear old friend of mine, very closely attached also to them.  They leave to-morrow morning by the St. Petersburg express, on which they have engaged a special coach.  What was I to do?  I tried to tear myself away earlier, but of course there were the portrait sketches to finish, and no doubt you know the usage of the best society in Russia.”

“Yes,” murmured Audrey.

“Come up on the dais, will you?” he suggested.  “And let us survey the scene together.”

They surveyed the scene together.  The snouted band was having supper on the floor in a corner, and many of the guests also were seated on the floor.  Miss Ingate, intoxicated by the rapture of existence, and Miss Thompkins were carefully examining the frescoes on the walls.  A young woman covered from head to foot with gold tinsel was throwing chocolates into Musa’s mouth, or as near to it as she could.

“What a splendid player Mr. Musa is!” Audrey inaugurated her career as a woman of the world.  “I doubt if I have ever heard such violin playing.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” replied Monsieur Dauphin.  “Of course you know I’m very conceited about my painting.  Anybody will tell you so.  But beneath all that I’m not so sure.  I often have the gravest doubts about my work.  But I never had any doubt that when I took Musa out of the orchestra in the Cafe de Versailles I was giving a genius to the world.  And perhaps that’s how I shall be remembered by posterity.  And if it is I shall be content.”