Place Vendôme, where she descried in the distance the glittering signs and
arms of the Hôtel du Danube. Then she walked up the opposite pavement of
the Rue de la Paix, and down again and up again until she had grasped its
significance.

It was a street of jewellery, perfumes, antiques, gloves, hats, frocks, and
furs. It was a street wherein the lily was painted and gold was gilded.
Every window was a miracle of taste, refinement, and costliness. Every
article in every window was so dear that no article was ticketed with its
price, save a few wafer-like watches and jewelled rings that bore tiny
figures, such as 12,500 francs, 40,000 francs. Despite her wealth, Audrey
felt poor. The upper windows of nearly all the great buildings were arrayed
with plants in full bloom. The roadway was covered with superb automobiles,
some of them nearly as long as trains. About half of them stood in repose
at the kerb, and Audrey as she strolled could see through their panes of
bevelled glass the complex luxury within of toy dogs, clocks, writing-pads,
mirrors, powder boxes, parasols, and the lounging arrogance of uniformed
menials. At close intervals women passed rapidly across the pavements to or
from these automobiles. If they were leaving a shop, the automobile sprang
into life, dogs, menials, and all, the door was opened, the woman slipped
in like a mechanical toy, the door banged, the menial jumped, and with
trumpet tones the entire machine curved and swept away. The aspect of these
women made Audrey feel glad that she was wearing her best clothes, and
simultaneously made her feel that her best clothes were worse than useless.

She saw an automobile shop with a card at the door: "Town and touring cars
for hire by day, week, or month." A gorgeous Mercédès, too spick, too span,
altogether too celestial for earthly use, occupied most of the shop.

"Good afternoon, Madame," said a man in bad English. For Audrey had