r anger.

The sun smiled into his room, summoning him to get up and go forth.

His father was not there. As if to emphasize the occasion, his mother
deserted her washtub, served his breakfast herself, stood about in
helpless attitudes.

"George," she whispered, toward the close of the desolate meal, "try to
get a job near here. Of course you could never come home, but we could
go to see you."

"Father," he said, "is kicking me out as much as Old Planter is, and you
back him up."

She clasped her hands.

"I've got to. And you can't blame your father. He has to look after
himself and me."

"It makes no difference. I'm not going to take a job near by," he said.

"Where are you going?" she asked, sharply.

He stared at her for a moment, profoundly sorry for her and for himself.

"I'm going to get away from everything that would remind me I've ever
been treated like something less than human."

She gave a little cry.

"Then say good-bye, my son, before your father comes back."

VIII

His father returned and stood impatiently waiting. There was nothing to
hold George except that unlikely chance of a glimpse of Sylvia. He would
say good-bye here, go up to the offices for his money, and then walk
straight out of Oakmont. He stepped from the house, swinging his
suitcase, his overcoat across his arm.

"I'm off," he said, trying to make his voice cheery.

His father considered his cold pipe. He held out his hand.

"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all."

George smiled his confidence.

"Well, let us hear from you," his father went on, "although as things
are I don't see how I could help you much."

"Don't worry," George said.

He walked to his mother, who had returned to her work. He kissed her
quickly, saying nothing, for he saw the tears falling from her cheeks to
the dirty water out of which linen emerged soft and immaculate. He
strode toward the main driveway.

"Good-bye," he called quickly.

The renewed racket at the tub pursued him until he had placed a screen
of foliage between himself and the little house. His last recollection
of home, indeed, was of swollen hands and swollen eyes, and of clean,
white tears dropping into offensive water.

He got his money and walked past the great house and down the driveway.
He would not see home again. At a turn near the gate he caught his
breath, his eyes widening. The vague chance had after all materialized.
Sylvia walked bri