Poor William! Everywhere he met it—the hint, the word, the story, the song, even; and always it added its mite to the woeful whole. Even the hoariest of mother-in-law jokes had its sting for him; and, to make his cup quite full, he chanced to remember one day what Marie had said when he had suggested that she and Cyril come to the Strata to live: “No; I think young folks should begin by themselves.”
Unhappy, indeed, were these days for William. Like a lost spirit he wandered from room to room, touching this, fingering that. For long minutes he would stand before some picture, or some treasured bit of old mahogany, as if to stamp indelibly upon his mind a thing that was soon to be no more. At other times, like a man without a home, he would go out into the Common or the Public Garden and sit for hours on some bench—thinking.
All this could have but one ending, of course. Before the middle of August William summoned Pete to his rooms.
“Oh, Pete, I'm going to move next week,” he began nonchalantly. His voice sounded as if moving were a pleasurable circumstance that occurred in his life regularly once a month. “I'd like you to begin to pack up these things, please, to-morrow.”
The old servant's mouth fell open.
“You're goin' to—to what, sir?” he stammered.
“Move—move, I said.” William spoke with unusual harshness.
Pete wet his lips.
“You mean you've sold the old place, sir?—that we—we ain't goin' to live here no longer?”
“Sold? Of course not! I'm going to move away; not you.”