He went to the door and out, and down the walk to the street. As he reached the pavement, the door opened behind him, and he looked back and saw his father standing there. For a moment, the two looked at each other; then the elder man turned his head, and went back into the house and closed the door. Wint walked steadily down the street. He did not know where he was to go; he did not think of this. And so it was without his own volition that he came to Joan’s home, and saw the girl sitting in a chair upon the veranda, a book in her lap. Her eyes met his. Her eyes were very serious and sad; but Wint turned in, and came to the steps, and stood there before her. She smiled a little wistfully; and he said, under his breath: “Joan.” She made no move to answer him. He said again: “Joan....” And then: “Joan....” She bent her head a little, but her eyes held his. “Wint,” she said, so softly he could scarce hear her words. “Wint--I’m sorry. But--I can’t go on. I can’t--trust you, Wint. This is good-by.” He felt himself shrink a little at the word; and he stood still for a moment till his senses steadied. Then he lifted his head a little. “I don’t blame you,” he told her. She said again: “Good-by!” And he nodded and echoed quietly: “Good-by, Joan.” For another moment, their eyes held each other. Then his dropped, and he turned and went down to the street again. * * * * * Half an hour later, Mrs. Moody was lighting the smoky-lamp in the office of the Weaver House when Wint came in. She saw him and grinned, and her teeth reflected the lamp’s light like pearls. “Why, hello, deary! Back again?” she called. He nodded. “The same room, please,” he told her. She bustled across to the stairs, and paused there and looked at him wisely “A little drop first, in the kitchen?” she invited. He shook his head. “No--nothing.” And so presently he found himself in the place where he had slept that sodden sleep the night before. CHAPTER III THE STRATEGY OF AMOS Wint had returned to the Weaver House in a numb revulsion of feeling. He was hurt and angry at the whole world; and he was wholly at sea as to what he should do. His instinct was to fight, to fight the thing out, to fight his father and to prove to Joan that she was mistaken in her condemnation. It was this instinct, with an unspoken thought that he would face the thing honestly, that sent him back to the hovel where he had spent the night before. That was where he belonged, he told himself. It was to such places that his father and Joan had consigned him. So be it. He found a grim sort of satisfaction in flaunting the stigma of his shame.