Audrey did not deem that she had begun truly to live until the next morning, when they left London, after having passed a night in the Charing Cross Hotel.  During several visits to London in the course of the summer Audrey had learnt something about the valuelessness of money in a metropolis chiefly inhabited by people who were positively embarrassed by their riches.  She knew, for example, that money being very plentiful and stylish hats very rare, large quantities of money had to be given for infinitesimal quantities of hats.  The big and glittering shops were full of people whose pockets bulged with money which they were obviously anxious to part with in order to obtain goods, while the proud shop-assistants, secure in the knowledge that money was naught and goods were everything, did their utmost, by hauteur and steely negatives, to render any transaction possible.  It was the result of a mysterious “Law of Exchange.”  She was aware of this.  She had lost her childhood’s naïve illusions about the sovereignty of money.

Nevertheless she received one or two shocks on the journey, which was planned upon the most luxurious scale that the imagination of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Son could conceive.  There was four pounds and ninepence to pay for excess luggage at Charing Cross.  Half a year earlier four pounds would have bought all the luggage she could have got together.  She very nearly said to the clerk at the window:  “Don’t you mean shillings?” But in spite of nervousness, blushings, and all manner of sensitive reactions to new experiences, her natural sang-froid and instinctive knowledge of the world saved her from such a terrible lapse, and she put down a bank-note without the slightest hint that she was wondering whether it would not be more advantageous to throw the luggage away.

The boat was crowded, and the sea and wind full of menace.  Fighting their way along the deck after laden porters, Audrey and Miss Ingate simultaneously espied the private cabin list hung in a conspicuous spot.  They perused it as eagerly as if it had been the account of a cause célèbre. Among the list were two English lords, an Honourable Mrs., a baroness with a Hungarian name, several Teutonic names, and Mrs. Moncreiff.

Audrey blushed deeply at the sign of Mrs. Moncreiff, for she was Mrs. Moncreiff.  Behind the veil, and with the touch of white in her toque, she might have been any age up to twenty-eight or so.  It would have been impossible to say that she was a young girl, that she was not versed in the world, that she had not the whole catechism of men at her finger-ends.  All who glanced at her glanced again-with sympathy and curiosity; and the second glance pricked Audrey’s conscience, making her feel like a thief.  But her moods were capricious.  At one moment she was a thief, a clumsy fraud, an ignorant ninny, and a suitable prey for the secret police; and at the next she was very clever, self-confident, equal to the situation, and enjoying the situation more than she had ever enjoyed anything, and determined to prolong the situation indefinitely.

The cabin was very spacious, yet not more so than was proper, considering that the rent of it came to about sixpence a minute.  There was room, even after all the packages were stowed, for both of them to lie down.  But instead of lying down they eagerly inspected the little abode.  They found a lavatory basin with hot and cold water taps, but no hot water and no cold water, no soap and no towels.  And they found a crystal water-bottle, but it was empty.  Then a steward came and asked them if they wanted anything, and because they were miserable poltroons they smiled and said “No.”  They were secretly convinced that all the other private cabins, inhabited by titled persons and by financiers, were superior to their cabin, and that the captain of the steamer had fobbed them off with an imitation of a real cabin.

Then it was that Miss Ingate, who since Charing Cross had been a little excited by a glimpsed newspaper contents-bill indicating suffragette riots that morning, perceived, through the open door of the cabin, a most beautiful and most elegant girl, attired impeccably in that ritualistic garb of travel which the truly cosmopolitan wear on combined rail-and-ocean journeys and on no other occasions.  It was at once apparent that the celestial creature had put on that special hat, that special veil, that special cloak, and those special gloves because she was deeply aware of what was correct, and that she would not put them on again until destiny took her again across the sea, and that if destiny never did take her again across the sea never again would she show herself in the vestments, whose correctness was only equalled by their expensiveness.

The young woman, however, took no thought of her impressive clothes.  She was existing upon quite another plane.  Miss Ingate, preoccupied by the wrongs and perils of her sex, and momentarily softened out of her sardonic irony, suspected that they might be in the presence of a victim of oppression or neglect.  The victim lay Half-prone upon the hard wooden seat against the ship’s rail.  Her dark eyes opened piteously at times, and her exquisite profile, surmounted by the priceless hat all askew, made a silhouette now against the sea and now against the distant white cliffs of Albion, according to the fearful heaving of the ship.  Spray occasionally dashed over her.  She heeded it not.  A few feet farther off she would have been sheltered by a weather-awning, but, clinging fiercely to the rail, she would not move.

Then a sharp squall of rain broke, but she entirely ignored the rain.

The next moment Miss Ingate and Audrey, rushing forth, had gently seized her and drawn her into their cabin.  They might have succoured other martyrs to the modern passion for moving about, for there were many; but they chose this particular martyr because she was so wondrously dressed, and also perhaps a little because she was so young.  As she lay on the cabin sofa she looked still younger; she looked a child.  Yet when Miss Ingate removed her gloves in order to rub those chill, fragile, and miraculously manicured hands, a wedding ring was revealed.  The wedding ring rendered her intensely romantic in the eyes of Audrey and Miss Ingate, who both thought, in private: 

“She must be the wife of one of those lords!”

Every detail of her raiment, as she was put at her ease, showed her to be clothed in precisely the manner which Audrey and Miss Ingate thought peeresses always were clothed.  Hence, being English, they mingled respect with their solacing pity.  Nevertheless, their respect was tempered by a peculiar pride, for both of them, in taking lemonade on the Pullman, had taken therewith a certain preventive or remedy which made them loftily indifferent to the heaving of ships and the eccentricities of the sea.  The specific had done all that was claimed for it-which was a great deal-so much so that they felt themselves superwomen among a cargo of flaccid and feeble sub-females.  And they grew charmingly conceited.

“Am I in my cabin?” murmured the martyr, about a quarter of an hour after Miss Ingate, having obtained soda water, had administered to her a dose of the miraculous specific.

Her delicious cheeks were now a delicate crimson.  But they had been of a delicate crimson throughout.

“No,” said Audrey.  “You’re in ours.  Which is yours?”

“It’s on the other side of the ship, then.  I came out for a little air.  But I couldn’t get back.  I’d just as lief have died as shift from that seat out there by the railings.”

Something in the accent, something in those fine English words “lief” and “shift,” destroyed in the minds of Audrey and Miss Ingate the agreeable notion that they had a peeress on their hands.

“Is your husband on board?” asked Audrey.

“He just is,” was the answer.  “He’s in our cabin.”

“Shall I fetch him?” Miss Ingate suggested.  The corners of her lips had begun to fall once more.

“Will you?” said the young woman.  “It’s Lord Southminster.  I’m Lady Southminster.”

The two saviours were thrilled.  Each felt that she had misinterpreted the accent, and that probably peeresses did habitually use such words as “lief” and “shift.”  The corners of Miss Ingate’s lips rose to their proper position.

“I’ll look for the number on the cabin list,” said she hastily, and went forth with trembling to summon the peer.

As Audrey, alone in the cabin with Lady Southminster, bent curiously over the prostrate form, Lady Southminster exclaimed with an air of childlike admiration: 

“You’re real ladies, you are!”

And Audrey felt old and experienced.  She decided that Lady Southminster could not be more than seventeen, and it seemed to be about half a century since Audrey was seventeen.

“He can’t come,” announced Miss Ingate breathlessly, returning to the cabin, and supporting herself against the door as the solid teak sank under her feet.  “Oh yes!  He’s there all right.  It was Number 12.  I’ve seen him.  I told him, but I don’t think he heard me-to understand, that is.  If you ask me, he couldn’t come if forty wives sent for him.”

“Oh, couldn’t he!” observed Lady Southminster, sitting up.  “Couldn’t he!”

When the boat was within ten minutes of France, the remedy had had such an effect upon her that she could walk about.  Accompanied by Audrey she managed to work her way round the cabin-deck to N.  It was empty, save for hand-luggage!  The two girls searched, as well as they could, the whole crowded ship for Lord Southminster, and found him not.  Lady Southminster neither fainted nor wept.  She merely said: 

“Oh!  All right!  If that’s it....!”

Hand-luggage was being collected.  But Lady Southminster would not collect hers, nor allow it to be collected.  She agreed with Miss Ingate and Audrey that her husband must ultimately reappear either on the quay or in the train.  While they were all standing huddled together in the throng waiting for the gangway to put ashore, she said in a low casual tone, ^ propos of nothing: 

“I only married him the day before yesterday.  I don’t know whether you know, but I used to make cigarettes in Constantinopoulos’s window in Piccadilly.  I don’t see why I should be ashamed of it, d’you?”

“Certainly not,” said Miss Ingate.  “But it is rather romantic, isn’t it, Audrey?”

Despite the terrific interest of the adventure of the cigarette girl, disappointment began immediately after landing.  This France, of which Audrey had heard so much and dreamed so much, was a very ramshackle and untidy and one-horse affair.  The custom-house was rather like a battlefield without any rules of warfare; the scene in the refreshment-room was rather like a sack after a battle; the station was a desert with odd files of people here and there; the platforms were ridiculous, and you wanted a pair of steps to get up into the train.  Whatever romance there might be in France had been brought by Audrey in her secret heart and by Lady Southminster.

Audrey had come to France, and she was going to Paris, solely because of a vision which had been created in her by the letters and by the photographs of Madame Piriac.  Although Madame Piriac and she had absolutely no tie of blood, Madame Piriac being the daughter by a first husband of the French widow who became the first Mrs. Moze-and speedily died, Audrey persisted privately in regarding Madame Piriac as a kind of elder sister.  She felt a very considerable esteem for Madame Piriac, upon whom she had never set eyes, and Madame Piriac had certainly given her the impression that France was to England what paradise is to purgatory.  Further, Audrey had fallen in love with Madame Piriac’s portraits, whose elegance was superb.  And yet, too, Audrey was jealous of Madame Piriac, and especially so since the attainment of freedom and wealth.  Madame Piriac had most warmly invited her, after the death of Mrs. Moze, to pay a long visit to Paris as a guest in her home.  Audrey had declined-from jealousy.  She would not go to Madame Piriac’s as a raw girl, overdone with money, who could only speak one language and who knew nothing at all of this our planet.  She would go, if she went, as a young woman of the world who could hold her own in any drawing-room, be it Madame Piriac’s or another.  Hence Miss Ingate had obtained the address of a Paris boarding-house, and one or two preliminary introductions from political friends in London.

Well, France was not equal to its reputation; and Miss Ingate’s sardonic smile seemed to be saying:  “So this is your France!”

However, the excitement of escorting the youngest English peeress to Paris sufficed for Audrey, even if it did not suffice for Miss Ingate with her middle-aged apprehensions.  They knew that Lady Southminster was the youngest English peeress because she had told them so.  At the very moment when they were dispatching a telegram for her to an address in London, she had popped out the remark:  “Do you know I’m the youngest peeress in England?” And truth shone in her candid and simple smile.  They had not found the peer, neither on the ship, nor on the quay, nor in the station.  And the peeress would not wait.  She was indeed obviously frightened at the idea of remaining in Calais alone, even till the next express.  She said that her husband’s “man” would meet the train in Paris.  She ate plenteously with Audrey and Miss Ingate in the refreshment-room, and she would not leave them nor allow them to leave her.  The easiest course was to let her have her way, and she had it.

By dint of Miss Ingate’s unscrupulous tricks with small baggage they contrived to keep a whole compartment to themselves.  As soon as the train started the peeress began to cry.  Then, wiping her heavenly silly eyes, and upbraiding herself, she related to her protectresses the glory of a new manicure set.  Unfortunately she could not show them the set, as it had been left in the cabin.  She was actually in possession of nothing portable except her clothes, some English magazines bought at Calais, and a handbag which contained much money and many bonbons.

“He’s done it on purpose,” she said to Audrey as soon as Miss Ingate went off to take tea in the tea-car.  “I’m sure he’s done it on purpose.  He’s hidden himself, and he’ll turn up when he thinks he’s beaten me.  D’you know why I wouldn’t bring that luggage away out of the cabin?  Because we had a quarrel about it, at the station, and he said things to me.  In fact we weren’t speaking.  And we weren’t speaking last night either.  The radiator of his-our-car leaked, and we had to come home from the Coliseum in a motor-bus.  He couldn’t get a taxi.  It wasn’t his fault, but a friend of mine told me the day before I was married that a lady always ought to be angry when her husband can’t get a taxi after the theatre-she says it does ’em good.  So first I told him he mustn’t leave me to look for one.  Then I said I’d wait where I was, and then I said we’d walk on, and then I said we must take a motor-bus.  It was that that finished him.  He said:  ’Did I expect him to invent a taxi when there wasn’t one?’ And he swore.  So of course I sulked.  You must, you know.  And my shoes were too thin and I felt chilly.  But only a fortnight before I was making cigarettes in the window of Constantinopoulos’s.  Funny, isn’t it?  Otherwise he’s behaved splendid.  Still, what I do say is a man’s no right to be ill when he’s taking you to Paris on your honeymoon.  I knew he was going to be ill when I left him in the cabin, but he stuck me out he wasn’t.  A man that’s so bad he can’t come to his wife when she’s bad isn’t a man-that’s what I say.  Don’t you think so?  You know all about that sort of thing, I lay.”

Audrey said briefly that she did think so, glad that the peeress’s intense and excusable interest in herself kept her from being curious about others.

“Marriage ain’t all chocolate-creams,” said the peeress after a pause.  “Have one?” And she opened her bag very hospitably.

Then she turned to her magazines.  And no sooner had she glanced at the cover of the second one than she gave a squeal, and, fetching deep breaths, passed the periodical to Audrey.  At the top of the cover was printed in large letters the title of a story by a famous author of short tales.  It ran: 

“MAN OVERBOARD.”

Henceforward a suspicion that had lain concealed in the undergrowth of the hearts of the two girls stalked boldly about in full daylight.

“He’s done it, and he’s done it to spite me!” murmured Lady Southminster tearfully.

“Oh no!” Audrey protested.  “Even if he had fallen overboard he’d have been seen and the captain would have stopped the boat.”

“Where do you come from?” Lady Southminster retorted with disdain.  “That’s an omen, that is”-pointing to the words on the cover of the magazine.  “What else could it be?  I ask you.”

When Miss Ingate returned the child was fast asleep.  Miss Ingate was paler than usual.  Having convinced herself that the sleeper did genuinely sleep, she breathed to Audrey: 

“He’s in the next compartment! ...  He must have hidden himself till nearly the last minute on the boat and then got into the train while we were sending off that telegram.”

Audrey blenched.

“Shall you wake her?”

“Wake her, and have a scene-with us here?  No, I shan’t.  He’s a fool.”

“How d’you know?” asked Audrey.

“Well, he must have been a fool to marry her.”

“Well,” whispered Audrey.  “If I’d been a man I’d have married that face like a shot.”

“It might be all right if he’d only married the face.  But he’s married what she calls her mind.”

“Is he young?”

“Yes.  And as good-looking in his own way as she is.”

“Well-”

But the Countess of Southminster stirred, and the slight movement stopped conversation.

The journey was endless, but it was no longer than the sleep of the Countess.  At length dusk and mist began to gather in the hollows of the land; stations succeeded one another more frequently.  The reflections of the electric lights in the compartment could be seen beyond the glass of the windows.  The train still ruthlessly clattered and shook and swayed and thundered; and weary lords, ladies and financiers had read all the illustrated magazines and six-penny novels in existence, and they lolled exhausted and bored amid the debris of literature and light refreshments.  Then the speed of the convoy slackened, and Audrey, looking forth, saw a pale cathedral dome resting aloft amid dark clouds.  It was a magical glimpse, and it was the first glimpse of Paris.  “Oh!” cried Audrey, far more like a girl than a widow.  The train rattled through defiles of high twinkling houses, roared under bridges, screeched, threaded forests of cold blue lamps, and at last came to rest under a black echoing vault.

Paris!

And, mysteriously, all Audrey’s illusions concerning France had been born again.  She was convinced that Paris could not fail to be paradisiacal.

Lady Southminster awoke.

Almost simultaneously a young man very well dressed passed along the corridor.  Lady Southminster, with an awful start, seized her bag and sprang after him, but was impeded by other passengers.  She caught him only after he had descended to the platform, which was at the bottom of a precipice below the windows.  He had just been saluted by, and given orders to, a waiting valet.  She caught him sharply by the arm.  He shook free and walked quickly away up the platform, guided by a wise instinct for avoiding a scene in front of fellow-travellers.  She followed close after him, talking with rapidity.  They receded.  Audrey and Miss Ingate leaned out of the windows to watch, and still farther and farther out.  Just as the honeymooning pair disappeared altogether their two forms came into contact, and Audrey’s eyes could see the arm of Lord Southminster take the arm of Lady Southminster.  They vanished from view like one flesh.  And Audrey and Miss Ingate, deserted, forgotten utterly, unthanked, buffeted by passengers and by the valet who had climbed up into the carriage to take away the impedimenta of his master, gazed at each other and then burst out laughing.

“So that’s marriage!” said Audrey.

“No,” said Miss Ingate.  “That’s love.  I’ve seen a deal of love in my time, ever since my sister Arabella’s first engagement, but I never saw any that wasn’t vehy, vehy queer.”

“I do hope they’ll be happy,” said Audrey.

“Do you?” said Miss Ingate.