He went to bed, but he slept restlessly. He wanted to be away from Oakmont and at work. Through his clouded mind persisted his desire for a parting glimpse of Sylvia. If he slept at all it was to the discordant memory of her 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 briskly along, accompanied by a vicious-looking bulldog on a leash. Her head was high and her shoulders square, as she always carried them. Her eyes sparkled. Then she saw George, and she paused, her expression altering into an active distaste, her cheeks flushing with tempestuous colour. "I can't go back now," George thought.