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 difficulties with men. Miss Thompkins
insinuated at intervals that she flirted, but she had the sharpest contempt
for flirtation, and as a practice put it on a level with embezzlement or
arson. Miss Thompkins, however, kept on insinuating. Audrey regarded
herself as decidedly wiser than Miss Thompkins. Her opinions on vital
matters changed almost weekly, but she was always absolutely sure that the
new opinion was final and incontrovertible. Her scorn of the old English
Audrey, though concealed, was terrific.

And it is to be remembered that she was a widow. She was never half a
second late, now, in replying when addressed as "Mrs. Moncreiff."
Frequently she thought that she in fact was a widow. Widowhood was a very
advantageous state. It had a free pass to all affairs of interest. It
opened wide the door of the world. It recked nothing of girlish codes. It
abolished discussions concerning conventional propriety. Its chief defect,
for Audrey, was that if she met another widow, or even a married woman, she