On this evening she wore the first of the new costumes.  She had worn it all day.  Characteristically she had chosen something which was not too special for either afternoon or evening, for either warm or cold weather.  It was of pale blue taffetas striped in a darker blue, with the corsage cut in basques, and the underskirt of a similar taffetas, but unstriped.  The effect of the ornate overskirt falling on the plain underskirt with its small double volant was, she thought, and Gerald too, adorable.  The waist was higher than any she had had before, and the crinoline expansive.  Tied round her head with a large bow and flying blue ribbons under the chin, was a fragile flat capote like a baby’s bonnet, which allowed her hair to escape in front and her great chignon behind.  A large spotted veil flew out from the capote over the chignon.  Her double skirts waved amply over Gerald’s knees in the carriage, and she leaned back against the hard cushions and put an arrogant look into her face, and thought of nothing but the intense throbbing joy of life, longing with painful ardour for more and more pleasure, then and for ever.

As the carriage slipped downwards through the wide, empty gloom of the Champs Elysees into the brilliant Paris that was waiting for them, another carriage drawn by two white horses flashed upwards and was gone in dust.  Its only occupant, except the coachman and footman, was a woman.  Gerald stared after it.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed.  “That’s Hortense!”

It might have been Hortense, or it might not.  But he instantly convinced himself that it was.  Not every evening did one meet Hortense driving alone in the Champs Elysees, and in August too!

“Hortense?” Sophia asked simply.

“Yes.  Hortense Schneider.”

“Who is she?”

“You’ve never heard of Hortense Schneider?”

“No!”

“Well!  Have you ever heard of Offenbach?”

“I—­I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”

He had the mien of utter incredulity.  “You don’t mean to say you’ve never heard of Bluebeard?”

“I’ve heard of Bluebeard, of course,” said she.  “Who hasn’t?”

“I mean the opera—­Offenbach’s.”

She shook her head, scarce knowing even what an opera was.

“Well, well!  What next?”

He implied that such ignorance stood alone in his experience.  Really he was delighted at the cleanness of the slate on which he had to write.  And Sophia was not a bit alarmed.  She relished instruction from his lips.  It was a pleasure to her to learn from that exhaustless store of worldly knowledge.  To the world she would do her best to assume omniscience in its ways, but to him, in her present mood, she liked to play the ignorant, uninitiated little thing.

“Why,” he said, “the Schneider has been the rage since last year but one.  Absolutely the rage.”

“I do wish I’d noticed her!” said Sophia.