“Farvel, Edwarda.”
“Farvel,” she answered.
I opened the door as if to go. Already she was sitting with the book in her hand, reading—actually reading and turning the page. Nothing affected, not the least in the world affected by my saying good-bye.
I coughed.
She turned and said in surprise:
“Oh, are you not gone? I thought you were.”
Heaven alone knows, but it struck me that her surprise was too great; that she was not careful, that she overdid it. And it came into my head that perhaps she had known all the time that I was standing behind her.
“I am going now,” I said.
Then she rose and came over to me.
“I should like to have something to remember you by when you go,” she said. “I thought of asking you for something, but perhaps it is too much. Will you give me Æsop?”