And she would never have lived in Paris at all!
She walked down the street.
"I can't think—I must think! I'll have this night to myself to think in, anyway. I'll go to some cheap hotel. I have enough for that."
She hailed a passing carriage, drove to the Hotel Bête, took her luggage to the Gare du Nord, and left it there.
Then as she stood on the station step, she felt something in her hand. It was the fat letter addressed to Madame Gautier. And she knew it was fat with bank notes.
She unfastened her dress and thrust the letter into her bosom, buttoning the dress carefully over it.
"But I won't go to my hotel yet," she said. "I won't even look for one. I'll see Paris a bit first."
She hailed a coachman.
"Go," she said, "to some restaurant in the Latin Quarter—where the art students eat."
"And I'm alone in Paris, and perfectly free," said Betty, leaning back on the cushions. "No, I won't tell my coachman to drive along the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, wherever that is. Oh, it is glorious to be perfectly free. Oh, poor Madame Gautier! Oh dear, oh dear!" She held her breath and wondered why she could feel sorry.