Harcourt pressed his hand in mute thanks, and then—declining their hospitable invitation to join their morning meal, on the plea that he had to hasten back to his lodgings with all speed, to pack his valise and catch his train—took leave of the kind family, ran to the corner of the street, boarded a passing car, and rode home.
He found breakfast waiting on Annie’s stove, ready to be put on the table, and little Owlet in the seventh heaven of delight at the prospect of being taken immediately home to Lady by Mr. William.
Harcourt spent but little time over his repast and then went to his room to pack his bag.
Looking around, and remembering that he should never return to that room, and that its simple furniture might be worth something to his kind neighbor, he called her.
She came to him promptly.
He could not find it in his heart to sadden her by telling her he should never come back again, so, when, after waiting a minute for him to tell her why he had called her, she inquired:
“What is it, Mr. William? What can I do for you?” He answered:
“You know, Annie, that our landlord’s prudent agent always makes us pay the month’s rent in advance.”
“Yes, Mr. William; and I think it is just as well, for it’s off our minds then, you know.”
“Yes. Well, I have paid my month’s rent in advance, as usual. I will leave you the receipt for the rent, Annie. There are three weeks yet to run. If I should not return at the end of that time you may give up my room, Annie, and take possession of my furniture. I give it all to you. In the meantime, dear soul, use this room and all there is in it as if it were your own. The weather will soon be warm, and from my room here you will get the sea breeze.”