“The Klondike,” she read. “There's something in it about the Klondike.” He put his hand out and drew the papers away.
“Don't you read that,” he said. “I don't want you to go to bed and dream about the Klondike. You've got to dream about the flat in Harlem.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I mustn't think about sad things. The flat in Harlem is quite happy. But it startled me to see that word.”
“I only sent for them—because I happened to want to look something up,” he explained. “How much is a pound, Miss Alicia?”
“Four dollars and eighty-six cents,” she replied, recovering herself.
“Go up head again. You're going to stay there.”
When she gave him her hand on their parting for the night he held it a moment. A subtle combination of things made him do it. The calculations, the measurements, the nest from which one could look out over the Bronx, were prevailing elements in its make-up. Ann had been in each room of the Harlem flat, and she always vaguely reminded him of Ann.
“We are relations, ain't we?” he asked.
“I am sure we often seem quite near relations—Temple.” She added the name with very pretty kindness.
“We're not distant ones any more, anyhow,” he said. “Are we near enough—would you let me kiss you good night, Miss Alicia?”