"It's not quite side-tracked—yet," he said.
"Ah, boy, never look back," said Leighton. "But, no; do. Do look back.
You're young yet. Tell me about it."
Then for a long time Lewis talked of Nadir: of the life there, of the Reverend Orme, grown morose through unnamed troubles; of Mrs. Leighton, withered away till naught but patience was left; of happy mammy, grown sad; of Natalie, friend, playmate, and sacrifice.
"So they wanted to marry your little pal into motherhood twenty times over, ready-made," said Leighton. "And you fought them, told 'em what you thought of it. You were right, boy; you were right. The wilderness must have turned their heads. But you ought to have stayed with it. Why didn't you stay with it? You're no quitter."
"There were things I said to the Reverend Orme," said Lewis, slowly—"things I knew, that made it impossible for me to stay."
"Things you knew? What things?"
Lewis did not answer.
* * * * *
It was on a gray Sunday that they entered London. In a four-wheeler, the roof of which groaned under a pyramid of baggage, they started out into the mighty silence of deserted streets. The plunk! plunk! of the horse's shod hoofs crashed against the blank walls of the shuttered houses and reverberated ahead of them until sound dribbled away down the gorge of the all-embracing nothing. Gray, gray; heaven and earth and life were gray.
Lewis felt like crying, but Leighton came to the rescue. He was in high spirits.