you
were bored, you found a friend and went to sit in a cafe. You were ready
for anything. The word "rule" had been omitted from your dictionary. You
retired to bed when the still small voice within murmured that there was
naught else to do. You woke up in the morning amid cups and saucers,
lingerie, masterpieces, and boots. And the next day was the same. All the
days were the same. Weeks passed with inexpressible rapidity, and all
things beyond the Quarter had the quality of vague murmurings and noises
behind the scenes.

May had come. Audrey and Miss Ingate had lived in the studio for six months
before they realised that they had settled down there and that habits had
been formed. Still, they had accomplished something. Miss Ingate had gone
back into oils and was attending life classes, and Audrey, by terrible
application and by sitting daily at the feet of an oldish lady in black,
and by refusing to speak English between breakfast and dinner, had acquired
a good accent and much fluency in the French tongue. Now, when she spoke
French, she thought in French, and she was extremely proud of the
achievement. Also she was acquainted with the names and styles of all known
modern painters from pointillistes to cubistes, and, indeed, with the
latest eccentricities in all the arts. She could tell who was immortal, and
she was fully aware that there was no real painting in England. In brief,
she was perhaps more Parisian even than she had hoped. She had absorbed
Paris into her system. It was still not the Paris of her early fancy; in
particular, it lacked elegance; but it richly satisfied her.

She had on this afternoon of young May an appointment with a young man. And
the appointment seemed quite natural, causing no inward disturbance. Less
than ever could she understand her father's ukases against young men and
against every form of self-indulgence. Now, when she had the idea of doing
a thing, she merely did it. Her instincts were her only guide, and, though
her instincts were often highly complex, they seldom puzzled her. The old
instinct that the desire to do a thing was a sufficient reason against
doing it, had expired. For many weeks she had lived with a secret fear that
such unbridled conduct must lead to terrible catastrophes, but as nothing
happened this fear also expired. She was constantly with young men, and
often with men not young; she liked it, but just as much she liked being
with women. She never had any diffi