The single word “Rosamund” sufficed to break one mood and induce another in all bosoms save that of Audrey, who was in a state of permanent joyous exultation that she scarcely even attempted to control.  The great militant had a surname, but it was rarely used save by police magistrates.  Her Christian name alone was more impressive than the myriad cognomens of queens and princesses.  Miss Nickall ran away home at once.  Miss Thompkins was left to deliver Miss Ingate and Audrey at Nick’s studio, which, being in the Rue Delambre, was not far away.  And not the shedding of the kimono and the re-assumption of European attire could affect Audrey’s spirits.  Had she been capable of regret in that hour, she would have regretted the abandonment of the ball, where the refined, spiritual, strange faces of the men, and the enigmatic quality of the women, and the exceeding novelty of the social code had begun to arouse in her sentiments of approval and admiration.  But she quitted the staggering frolic without a sigh; for she carried within her a frolic surpassing anything exterior or physical.

The immense flickering boulevard with its double roadway stretched away to the horizon on either hand, empty.

“What time is it?” asked Miss Ingate.

Tommy looked at her wrist-watch.

“Don’t tell me!  Don’t tell me!” cried Audrey.

“We might get a taxi in the Rue de Babylone,” Tommy suggested.  “Or shall we walk?”

“We must walk,” cried Audrey.

She knew the name of the street.  In the distance she could recognise the dying lights of the cafe-restaurant where they had eaten.  She felt already like an inhabitant of the dreamed-of city.  It was almost inconceivable to her that she had been within it for only a few hours, and that England lay less than a day behind her in the past, and Moze less than two days.  And Aguilar the morose, and the shuttered rooms of Flank Hall, shot for an instant into her mind and out again.

The other two women walked rather quickly, mesmerised possibly by the magic of the illustrious Christian name, and Audrey gave occasional schoolgirlish leaps by their side.  A little policeman appeared inquisitive from a by-street, and Audrey tossed her head as if saying:  “Pooh!  I belong here.  All the mystery of this city is mine, and I am as at home as in Moze Street.”

And as they surged through the echoing solitude of the boulevard, and as they crossed the equally tremendous boulevard that cut through it east and west, Tommy told the story of Nick’s previous relations with Rosamund.  Nick had met Rosamund once before through her English chum, Betty Burke, an art student who had ultimately sacrificed art to the welfare of her sex, but who with Mrs. Burke had shared rooms and studio with Nick for many months.  Tommy’s narrative was spotted with hardly perceptible sarcasms concerning art, women, Betty Burke, Mrs. Burke, and Nick; but she put no barb into Rosamund.  And when Miss Ingate, who had never met Rosamund, asked what Rosamund amounted to in the esteem of Tommy, Tommy evaded the question.  Miss Ingate remembered, however, what she had said in the cafe-restaurant.