“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.