“I’ll follow in a day or two,” he said, “probably go down on Tuesday, the doctor says.”
She began gathering up the books, reading the titles, and putting aside those that were not hers.
“I’m so sorry it’s over,” she said in a preoccupied voice without any particular regret in it. “The Mill on the Floss is Mrs. Perley’s, I think.”
“I’m sorry, too,” he commented, very low.
She made no reply, selected another book, and as she held it up looking at the back, said,
“But it’s not like a regular good-by. It’s not as if you were going in one direction and we in another. We’ll see you in San Francisco, of course.”
“I don’t think so,” he answered.
She laid the book on the table and turned her face toward him. He stood looking into the fire, not seeing the face, but conscious of it, of its expression, of its every line.
“Do you mean that we’re not going to see you down there at all?”
“Yes, that’s just about what I meant,” he replied.