“But we will still be friends, K.?”
Her voice was anxious, a little puzzled. She was often puzzled with him.
“Of course.”
But, after another silence, he astounded her. She had fallen into the way of thinking of him as always belonging to the house, even, in a sense, belonging to her. And now—
“Shall you mind very much if I tell you that I am thinking of going away?”
“K.!”
“My dear child, you do not need a roomer here any more. I have always received infinitely more than I have paid for, even in the small services I have been able to render. Your Aunt Harriet is prosperous. You are away, and some day you are going to be married. Don't you see—I am not needed?”
“That does not mean you are not wanted.”
“I shall not go far. I'll always be near enough, so that I can see you”—he changed this hastily—“so that we can still meet and talk things over. Old friends ought to be like that, not too near, but to be turned on when needed, like a tap.”
“Where will you go?”