ms.”

“The Village forgets pretty easily,” she murmured, rather wistful.

“Yes, it forgets.... Sue, you'll marry--perhaps.”

She shook her head, lips compressed. “No--not as I feel now.... Henry,
you're too tragic! We needn't say good-by like this. Good heavens, I'm
only going over to Jersey--eighteen miles! That's all.”

“There are statute miles,” said he, “and nautical miles, and--another
kind.”

“But I'll see you again.”

“Oh, yes! Of course, Sue!”

“You can run out--some day when--”

Her voice faltered. He _had_ been out of place in that kitchen. And she
had been put to the necessity of explaining him. It was another sort of
thing--hopelessly another sort of thing.

He was looking down at her, something of the old whimsical calm in his
gaze, though sober, very sober.

“Anyway,” said she, weakly, groping, “you three will go on having your
good times over there in the Square. I find I like to think of you
there. What was it they called you--the--”

“The Seventh-Story Men, Sue.”

“Yes, that was it. You've been together so long, you three. I've always
thought of your place as something stable in the Village. Everything
else was changing, all the time.”

“We've gone like the rest, Sue.”

“Oh, no, Henry! Not really?”

“All gone! Hy goes one way, I another. And Pete stays alone. No more
Seventh-Story Men. Good-by, Sue.”

He watched her through the gate; waited to catch her last glance, then
turned back into the city.

Slowly, very slowly, he approached the old brick building in the
Square--his home.

In the lower hall he hesitated, wondering if Peter was in. Finally
he asked the night man. No, Mr. Mann was not in. The Worm drew a long
breath of relief and went up to the rooms.

It did not take long to pack his possessions. Now that there were no
books to consider everything went into one old suit-case. And with this
he set forth into the night.

The experience had a gloomy thrill of its own. He had no notion where
he was going. He hardly cared. The one gr