Then for a long time Lewis talked of Nadir: of the life there, of the
Reverend Orme, grown morose through unnamed troubles; of Mrs. Leighton,
withered away till naught but patience was left; of happy mammy, grown
sad; of Natalie, friend, playmate, and sacrifice.

"So they wanted to marry your little pal into motherhood twenty times
over, ready-made," said Leighton. "And you fought them, told 'em what
you thought of it. You were right, boy; you were right. The wilderness
must have turned their heads. But you ought to have stayed with it. Why
didn't you stay with it? You're no quitter."

"There were things I said to the Reverend Orme," said Lewis,
slowly--"things I knew, that made it impossible for me to stay."

"Things you knew? What things?"

Lewis did not answer.

* * * * *

It was on a gray Sunday that they entered London. In a four-wheeler, the
roof of which groaned under a pyramid of baggage, they started out into
the mighty silence of deserted streets. The _plunk! plunk!_ of the
horse's shod hoofs crashed against the blank walls of the shuttered
houses and reverberated ahead of them until sound dribbled away down the
gorge of the all-embracing nothing. Gray, gray; heaven and earth and
life were gray.

Lewis felt like crying, but Leighton came to the rescue. He was in high
spirits.