That was all either had the chance to say. A crowd of rain-soaked travelers bore the girl away from him, into a small umbrella-closing mob around the car steps. Carol managed a last wave from the platform of the coach. Then she had to attend to the business of finding a seat. The train pulled out. “My God! Have I done the right thing—letting her go?” the heartbroken boy cried hoarsely, as the train drew slowly from the platform, gathering speed as it clicked on shining rails down the yards. But there was no one to answer his heart-cry. The train had gone. Carol had gone. The town remained—the factory—work—memories! It rained that morning! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XX SIDETRACKED I The train had gone. Carol had gone. The town remained—the factory—work—memories. Coat collar upturned, hands deep-thrust in trousers pockets, Nathan slopped through the puddles along down to the shop. The office chanced to be empty as he entered. He looked around. It was difficult to believe that this was the same room in which just a few hours before he had held the girl he loved in his arms. It was difficult to credit that at this moment a train was bearing her away, farther and farther away; that there would be no more talks and walks and trysts; that she was gone, gone! Then the reaction came. He passed a hideous day. The rain stopped around five o’clock, though the trees dripped throughout the evening and pedestrians were grotesque through mist in which the arc lamps were nebulous. His father was still more affable during supper, even boresomely jocular. He had turned a neat piece of business. Some day on bended knee—Johnathan was strong on the “bended knee” and “kissed hand” metaphor—his boy would thank him gratefully and humbly. It was with a vast relief that the man was able to wave his hand in generous permission when Nathan announced he was going for a walk. Why should not Nathan go for a walk? He, Johnathan, had walked much when a young man. And, thank God, there was no longer any need for nerve-racking surveillance to see that the son kept away from The Sex. Had not he, Johnathan, made certain the girl had left town by watching that departure from the interior of a fruit-store opposite the depot, that morning? Nathan went out and roamed the streets of Paris. It was inevitable that after ten o’clock he should draw near the Cuttner premises. In the shadow of the big tree at the gate he gazed at the darkened house. The lonely boy tried to imagine Carol still in the place, awaiting his whistle. Once he did whistle, for at heart he was much of a child. But he was whistling at the husk of a memory. The soul of the Cuttner homestead had departed.