"Good-bye," he called quickly.
The renewed racket at the tub pursued him until he had placed a screen of foliage between himself and the little house. His last recollection of home, indeed, was of swollen hands and swollen eyes, and of clean, white tears dropping into offensive water.
He got his money and walked past the great house and down the driveway. He would not see home again. At a turn near the gate he caught his breath, his eyes widening. The vague chance had after all materialized. Sylvia walked briskly along, accompanied by a vicious-looking bulldog on a leash. Her head was high and her shoulders square, as she always carried them. Her eyes sparkled. Then she saw George, and she paused, her expression altering into an active distaste, her cheeks flushing with tempestuous colour.
"I can't go back now," George thought.
She seemed to visualize all that protected her from him. He put his cheap suitcase down.
"I'm glad I saw you," he said, deliberately. "I wanted to thank you for having me fired, for waking me up."
She didn't answer. She stood quite motionless. The dog growled, straining at his leash toward the man in the road.
"I've been told to get out and stay out," he went on, his temper lashed by her immobility. "You know I meant what I said yesterday when I thought you couldn't hear. I did. Every last word. And you might as well understand now I'll make every word good."
He pointed to the gate.
"I'm going out there just so I can come back and prove to you that I don't forget."