rica," said Madame Sennier. "Nobody knows what
real life is who has not seen New York in the season. Paris, London,
they are sleepy villages in comparison with New York."

"I should like to see it," replied Charmian. "But we have nothing to
take us there, no reason to go."

She laughed and added:

"And Claude and I are not millionaires."

Madame Sennier talked for two or three minutes of the great expense of
living in a smart New York hotel, and then said:

"But some day you will surely go."

"There doesn't seem any prospect of it," said Charmian.

"D'you remember meeting a funny little man called Crayford in my house
one night, an impresario?" said Mrs. Shiffney, moving her shoulders, and
pulling at one of her long gloves, as if she were bored and must find
some occupation.

"Yes, I believe I do--a man with a tiny beard."

"Like a little inquiring goat's! D'you know that he's searching the
world to find some composer to run against Jacques? Isn't it so,
Henriette?"

"So they say in New York," said Madame Sennier. "I wish he could find
one; then perhaps he would leave off bothering us with absurd proposals.
And I'm sure there is plenty of room for some more shining lights. I
told Crayford if he worried Jacques any more I would unearth someone for
him. He doesn't know where to look."

"But surely--" began Charmian.

"Why do you think that?" asked Mrs. Shiffney, in an uninterested voice.

Her brilliant eyes looked extraordinary, like some strange exotic bird's
eyes, through her veil.

"Because he began his search with England," said Madame Sennier.

"Well, really--Henriette!" observed Mrs. Shiffney, with a faint laugh.

"Ought I to apologize?" said Madame Sennier, turning to Charmian. "When
art is in question I believe in speaking the plain truth. Oh, I know
your husband is by way of writing an opera! But, of course, one sees
that--well, you are here in this delicious little house, having what the
Americans call a lovely time, enjoying North Africa, listening to the
fountain, walking, as my old baby says, among passion-flowers, and
playing about with that joke from the Quartier Latin, Armand Gillier.
_Mais, ma chere, ce n'est pas serieux!_ One has only to look at your
interesting husband, to see him in the African _milieu_, to see that.
And, of course, one realizes at once that you see through it all! A
pretty game! If one is well off one can afford it. Jacques and I
starved; but it was quite right tha