“Very well.” The voice was non-committal. Waiting, Armstrong thought there would be more to follow, a comment at least; but there was none. Roberts merely leaned back more comfortably in his place, remained so for a minute while like smoke the former subject faded from the horizon. Armstrong grew conscious that he was being observed intently.
“By the way,” introduced Roberts, abruptly, “I’ve decided to give up my residence here in the suburbs. They’re remodelling the office building I’m in, you know: adding another floor, an elevator, and one thing and another. I’ve rented a suite in the addition, to be fitted 100 out after some ideas of my own. They’ll begin on it inside a week.”
For a moment Armstrong said nothing.
“I’m not particularly surprised,” he commented at last, “that is, not surprised that you’re going to quit me. It was merely a question of time until this place we’re living in here got too small for you. When will you go?”
“The lease gives them a month to deliver.”
“A month. All right.” There was frost forming in the tone. “I’ll try and lassoo another mate in that time. The place isn’t particularly pretentious, but, nevertheless, I can’t afford to inhabit it alone.” He smiled, but it was not his customary companionable smile. “You’re on the incline and trudging up steadily, aren’t you, old man?”
For an instant Roberts returned the look with the analytic one Armstrong knew so well.
“I trust so,” he returned. A pause, again sufficient for second thought. “Looking into the immediate future I see a lot of grinding to be done, and I need machinery to do it with. This down town move is merely part of the campaign.”
“I see,” Armstrong ignored the explanation, even perverted it intentionally. “And the next installation of machinery will be in stone out on 101 Nob Hill among the other imitation colonial factories. When’s that to be, if I may ask?”
Roberts said nothing.