A. A. Proctor.
The Baroness Von Bruyin, the name and title on the card, bore no especial significance for Lilith.
She bowed as she took the enameled bit of pasteboard and withdrew from the room.
The little old Frenchman came from some other room opening upon the same corridor, and politely escorted her downstairs and out of the hotel.
“Shall I have the honor to call a cab for you, madame?” he inquired, when they had reached the vestibule.
“No, monsieur, thank you. I prefer to walk,” replied Lilith.
The professor stood aside to let Lilith go out.
Lilith “preferred to walk” that she might be alone, and have a longer time for reflection and for self-collection before reaching her boarding-house, and having to meet the kind inquiries of Aunt Sophie.
The die was cast, then. Her fate was sealed. She had taken the step from which she felt there was no honorable retreat—unless, indeed, her husband should relent; should retract all his bitter charges against her; should seek her out, ask her to return to the home from which he had madly driven her, and set up his own superior claims to her allegiance in opposition to those of madame, the baroness.
But this, Lilith knew, was a possibility far too remote to be thought of.