"Then say good-bye, my son, before your father comes back."
VIII
His father returned and stood impatiently waiting. There was nothing to hold George except that unlikely chance of a glimpse of Sylvia. He would say good-bye here, go up to the offices for his money, and then walk straight out of Oakmont. He stepped from the house, swinging his suitcase, his overcoat across his arm.
"I'm off," he said, trying to make his voice cheery.
His father considered his cold pipe. He held out his hand.
"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all."
George smiled his confidence.
"Well, let us hear from you," his father went on, "although as things are I don't see how I could help you much."
"Don't worry," George said.
He walked to his mother, who had returned to her work. He kissed her quickly, saying nothing, for he saw the tears falling from her cheeks to the dirty water out of which linen emerged soft and immaculate. He strode toward the main driveway.