“I know you had not. Nevertheless, that’s how the thing has to be done. You must take a first floor in the neighbourhood of Bond Street, and you must call yourself by a foreign name, a title for choice.” “Oh, I shouldn’t like to do that!” “You have no choice. Either you must leave the thing undone, or do it well. My dear Mrs. Angmering, I advise you in Gerard’s interest as well as your own. Wouldn’t you like to be able to meet him, in not so very long a time, with a house of your own, and a turn-out such as you both have admired in the park a hundred times? Of course you would. And the way to get all those nice things, and to hold up your head in the world besides, is to cut a dash with whatever capital you’ve got, and to begin with a flourish. I’ll get you a good little circle of smart clients to make a start with, and if you’ll be guided by me, you will make your fortune.” Breathlessly, with many a timid fear, yet with a vague consciousness that there was sound sense in his advice from a worldly point of view, Audrey listened, objected, was talked down and finally conquered. Within a month, taking step by step, not without caution, but acknowledging the great help of Mr. Candover’s judgment, Audrey found herself the responsible tenant of handsomely furnished first-floor showrooms in a good street in the West End, with a staff of assistants, and over them the “valuable woman” of whom Mr. Candover had spoken. This woman was a sallow, elderly Frenchwoman, who professed to speak no English. She was thin, gaunt, plain of feature, simple of dress. She had keen, hard eyes and a curious look in her face which reminded Audrey of some one she had seen somewhere, but in an elusive way, so that she was unable to fix the resemblance upon any definite person. This woman’s name was Marie Laure, and she had the eye of a lynx and the step of a cat. Audrey was sure that Mademoiselle Laure disliked her, but could not say how she knew it. In the meantime the Frenchwoman was clever, business-like and an excellent manager, so that indeed, as Mr. Candover had said, it was only the showy part of the work that was left to the young nominal head of the business. Little by little Audrey had discovered that she was sliding into complete confidence in Mr. Candover’s advice, so that he was consulted by her in everything, and always with good results. He fulfilled his promise to bring her customers, and although some of these were not of the type she would have chosen, he laughed at her scarcely expressed scruples, and told her that she did not want to cater for Sunday schools. Then he got her an order for the dresses for a new piece at a theatre, and telling her that she must now advertise herself by the title he had found for her, sent announcements broadcast to the papers that the dresses for the new piece at the Piccadilly Theatre were by that “artistic creator of exquisite motives in millinery and dreams in dresses,” the Countess Rocada.