In the morning George shook him warmly by the hand when he came down, again as he was putting on his coat, and again, twice, as he set out for business. "Good luck," he said. "Good luck, old man. Elsie really has loved having you, and I'm sorry you're leaving dear, old, dirty Thrigsby." "Good-by," said René. "I'll let you know what happens to me, if anything does. I don't think I shall stay in London." "Good-by, then. By George, I shall be late!" And he set off at a run. René only had ten minutes more. Most of that was taken up with seeing the children off to the kindergarten they attended. Mrs. Fourmy had stayed in her bed. He went up to see her. She clung to him, but spoke no word, and he was too deeply moved to speak. She looked old and frail and very small in her bed. At last she said: "You're glad to go?" "Yes." Her eyes looked hunger and reproach. She turned her face away. "Good-by." "Good-by, mother. George is a good fellow, isn't he?" "Oh, yes. And I find the children a great comfort." She said that in a perfectly toneless voice. The contrast between it and what she had looked only a moment before shocked René. He mastered himself and kissed her and hurried away. Elsie said: "It has been a treat. You really are a sight for sore eyes, René. I never thought you would grow into such a handsome man. I do wish George didn't have to go to that office. It makes him so pasty." "Let me know when you have a birthday," said René, "and you shall have another tailor-made." "It's next week," said Elsie innocently. "Right you are. You shall have it." . . . . . . At last he was in the train. No sleep this time. Derby, Leicester, Nottingham, the hills by Elstree, London. A taxi took him hot speed to the hostel. Cathleen was not yet back from her work. Lotta met him with a grave face. She had had a terrible time with Ann, who had alternated between a dog-like gratitude to herself and harsh defiance of Cathleen and all the other young women of the hostel. The situation had been impossible. To appease her she was allowed to see his letter, and after a few hours' brooding on it--not without tears--she had demanded the twenty pounds. With that, apparently, she had cabled to Joe and Rita and another friend in Canada, had packed up her boxes, stolen away early in the morning, and got on board at Southampton, whither she had been traced. "Poor little Ann," said René. "I told you she had courage." "She has that. To go out to a new life----" "Our interference must have been intolerable to a spirit like hers. But what could we do? Even from you----" "It is horrible that disasters should interfere with human comradeship." "It is horrible, but they do interfere." "Does Cathleen know?" "Yes. I told her last night." "Well?" "It seemed to bring home to her for the first time how terrible and ugly it was. You don't mind my saying that, but the past always does cast its shadow."