He didn’t come again for some time. One day Floyd met him at the club.
“Why don’t we see you at the house? We miss you.”
Martin’s eyes had a look of abstraction.
“Your home is like a nest just now. There is room in it only for two—and the little bird.” It was a beautiful thought; but that humor never lasted long with him. He said abruptly:
“I’ve sold my house. They are going to build a skyscraper. It will take away your light.”
Floyd’s face darkened.
“That won’t drive us out.”
“Why stay there? You can get a big profit.”
“I was born there; I want to die there.”
Martin laughed mockingly.