The Inger did not answer. He stood in the doorway waiting for something. He did not know what he waited for, but the imminent thing, whatever it was, held him still. A hope, which he could not have formulated, came shining slowly toward him, in him.
In a moment, Jem Moor emerged from the office door, still brokenly running, seeking to escape from those who crowded with him, questioning him. The Inger strolled from the doorway, across the street, took his way through the little group which fell back for him, and brought his hand down on the old man’s shoulder.
“Anything wrong?” he inquired.
Jem Moor looked up at him. He was pinched and the lines of his nose were drawn, and his lips were pulling.
“She’s skipped,” he said. “I’m in for ’Leven Hundred odd, to Bunchy.”
Something in the Inger leaped out and soared. He stood there, saying what he had to say, conscious all the time that as soon as might be he should be free to soar with it.
“Alone?” he demanded.
Jem Moor held out a scrap of paper. The Inger took it and read, the others peering over his arms and shoulders.
“Dad,” it said, “I can’t go Bunchy. I know what this’ll do to you, but I can’t never do it—I can’t. I’ve gone for good. Dear old Dad, don’t you hate me.
“Lory.”