She shook her head, lips compressed. “No—not as I feel now.... Henry, you're too tragic! We needn't say good-by like this. Good heavens, I'm only going over to Jersey—eighteen miles! That's all.”
“There are statute miles,” said he, “and nautical miles, and—another kind.”
“But I'll see you again.”
“Oh, yes! Of course, Sue!”
“You can run out—some day when—”
Her voice faltered. He had been out of place in that kitchen. And she had been put to the necessity of explaining him. It was another sort of thing—hopelessly another sort of thing.
He was looking down at her, something of the old whimsical calm in his gaze, though sober, very sober.
“Anyway,” said she, weakly, groping, “you three will go on having your good times over there in the Square. I find I like to think of you there. What was it they called you—the—”
“The Seventh-Story Men, Sue.”
“Yes, that was it. You've been together so long, you three. I've always thought of your place as something stable in the Village. Everything else was changing, all the time.”