"No, nor he never will. Your mother 'bout killed him when he was a boy, an' he is n't goin' to run after you who has 'bout killed him again as a man. You don't know nothin' what you 've done. I 've been through hell with him these last six weeks, an' I went through it with him once before twenty-eight years ago, an' that hell compared with this was like a campfire to a forest-roarer.— Now you know."
"Cale—Cale, what have I done?"
"You 've done what will take the rest of your life to undo. I ain't goin' to meddle, I tell you, but I 'm tellin' you just as things stand. My part's done—for I 've found you; an' I 'm goin' to tell him so."
He stood up; as it were, shook himself together, and without any ceremony started for the door.
"Cale, don't go yet—I want to tell you; you don't see my position—"
"Position be hanged. I guess folks that find their lives hangin' by a thread don't stop to argify much 'bout 'position'; they get somewhere where they can live—thet 's all they want."
He was at the front door by this time. I grasped his arm and held it tight.
"You will come again, Cale, you must."
"I 'm goin' home to Lamoral as quick as the Montreal express can get me there. I can't breathe here in this hole!"
He loosened his shirt collar and took off his coat. It was an unseasonable day in November—an Indian summer day with the mercury at eighty-four. The life of the East Side was flooding the streets. He turned to me as he stood on the low step. "I hope it won't be goodby for another six weeks, Marcia."