She could remain at the Dauphin, in seclusion, until she had time to think. Then she could act.
As she sped smoothly up Fifth Avenue—her second ride on the Avenue that night—she began, in the cushioned privacy of the taxi, to recover somewhat from the panic of dire necessity that had driven them forth. Other matters began to flash spasmodically across the screen of her mind. One of these was William. And there the film stopped. The cold, withering look William had given Matilda a few minutes before remained fixed upon the screen. That look threatened her most unpleasantly as to the future. What if William should learn who was the real Matilda to whom he had made love!
"Matilda," she began, calling up her dignity, "I desire to instruct you upon a certain matter."
"Yes, ma'am," whispered Matilda.
"I expressly instruct you not to mention or hint to any one, particularly William, that it was I and not you who went out driving with him to-night."
"I'll not, ma'am."
"You swear?"
"I swear, ma'am. Never!"
"Remember, Matilda. You have sworn." And relieved of that menace, she leaned back.
The taxi drew up before the Dauphin. A grenadier-lackey, who seemed bulk and brass buttons and braid of gold, handed them out with august white gloves.