Just then, Adelaide returned. “Quincy’s not there,” she said in a high voice that came out above her angry breathing. Instinctively, she ranged herself beside her mother. For a moment, Sarah stood swaying, before her husband. And then, in a burst of passion she rushed upon him. “Oh! Oh!” she cried. “So at last you’ve done it! So at last, you’ve driven him away! You’ve driven him away!” XI Quincy found himself on the street. The machine stood before him. Beyond two obstructing tires and a net-work of gleaming steel sat Farrel, the chauffeur. His peaked cap was over his brow. A cigarette lay on his lips, the smoke a perpendicular thread in composition with his square-massed face. A newspaper was below his nose. Quincy stood beyond the barriers and called. “Farrel!” There was no response. “Farrel!” The man turned his head. The look in his eye was grey and filmed and sluggish like the thread of smoke. The mind was gone. “Where’s mother, Farrel?” “I don’t know. I left her shopping.” Farrel rustled his pink paper ostentatiously. Then, folding it, he slapped it into a receptive shape with his bulky hand and plunged to a new page of screaming nullities. He had forgotten Quincy. He was piqued at having to remain there, he knew not how long. He wished to go home to his wife. He had learned that the Burts were very careless about discharging him at the end of a day’s long work. He was not minded to be polite to Quincy. For Quincy was a Burt, so that he resented him; yet an insignificant Burt, so that he could show it. Quincy turned toward the house. It was evening. A gentle, blue haze was on the street. The lights came out suddenly, in periodic spurts, as if separate from the mist that lulled about them. There was in the air a languid note, such as may follow a siege of fever. The traffic pounded heavily by, as if in token of its weary passengers. And now, Quincy looked toward the house. What he saw there drove his hands cup-like to his head. A flash of fire shot through his mind. Then, motively, he connected his sensations. On his head was a cap. The great red door was shut. Something within Quincy had worked deliberately through his body, yet told his consciousness no word. Still it worked; still Quincy bowed to it, unknowing. His hands fell from their momentary, cup-like grasp. They clenched at his side. And then, rhythmically, he struck out in the direction of Central Park. The electric light over Farrel’s head threw a concentrated glow of yellow on his page. A car on the Avenue crashed past, wheels groaning, bell a-jangle. Then, Quincy crossed. With huddled shoulder he mounted the sloping asphalt whose lights shot shadows of black and floods of blue against its marge of trees. A distant symphony of whistles and of fog-horns rose dimly from the Hudson over his back. Beyond him, the Park traced out its purple monotone, flecked with the cut of lights.