Then, as she waited, her crushed pride rose a few degrees. Whatever subsequent steps Thornton might take, her departure should at least not have the indignity of flight. A scribbled line would save her self-respect. When the servants came into the room to take down the boxes to the cab she had written the note. “I am leaving your house. I go back to my old rooms in the King's Road, where I shall resume the life I led before I knew you.” Then only did it occur to her to inquire of the footman whether Mr. Hammerdyke was in. The man, who was accustomed to the separation between the lives of his master and mistress, replied, without manifesting any surprise at the question, that Mr. Hammerdyke had gone out just before lunch. “Put this note in his room for him,” said Clytie. “I shall be away some time.” In a few moments she had started. With a little convulsive moan, wrung involuntarily from her lips by her agony of body and soul, she leaned her head against the rusty cushions of the ramshackle vehicle and closed her eyes. The day was still glorious, London bathed in sunlight, the streets filled with life and motion. For all the world but her the promise of the morning was kept. As the cab slackened its pace on crossing the Fulham Road she opened her eyes for a moment, and looked vacantly, as if in a dream, out of the window. Then she relapsed into her darkness. “And I was so happy this morning,” she murmured to herself. “I could have lived the better life--with Kent's help!”