Yes, he would return to Sally, and to his people--some day.
The some day he did not fix. He told himself that the hills were only
thirty hours away, and therefore he could go any time--which is the
other name for no time. He had promised Lescott to remain here for
eighteen months, and, when that interval ended, he seemed just on the
verge of grasping his work properly. He assured himself often and
solemnly that his creed was unchanged; his loyalty untainted; and the
fact that it was necessary to tell himself proved that he was being
weaned from his traditions. And so, though he often longed for home, he
did not return. And then reason would rise up and confound him. Could
he paint pictures in the mountains? If he did, what would he do with
them? If he went back to that hermit life, would he not vindicate his
uncle's prophecy that he had merely unplaced himself? And, if he went
back and discharged his promise, and then returned again to the new
fascination, could he bring Sally with him into this life--Sally, whom
he had scornfully told that a "gal didn't need no l'arnin'?" And the
answer to all these questions was only that there was no answer.

One day, Adrienne looked up from a sheaf of his very creditable
landscape studies to inquire suddenly: "Samson, are you a rich man, or a poor one?"