He took the two keys; dropped them into his pocket, where they jingled against the other one. “It's a lonely road you're taking, Sue. Good luck.”. “Oh, I'll see you, Henry. It won't be so exacting as that.” “But life is going to change--for me and for you. The kaleidoscope won't fall again into the old combination. New crowds, new ideas, are coming in--new enthusiasms.” “The Village forgets pretty easily,” she murmured, rather wistful. “Yes, it forgets.... Sue, you'll marry--perhaps.” 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.” “We've gone like the rest, Sue.” “Oh, no, Henry! Not really?” “All gone! Hy goes one way, I another. And Pete stays alone. No more Seventh-Story Men. Good-by, Sue.” He watched her through the gate; waited to catch her last glance, then turned back into the city. Slowly, very slowly, he approached the old brick building in the Square--his home. In the lower hall he hesitated, wondering if Peter was in. Finally he asked the night man. No, Mr. Mann was not in. The Worm drew a long breath of relief and went up to the rooms. It did not take long to pack his possessions. Now that there were no books to consider everything went into one old suit-case. And with this he set forth into the night. The experience had a gloomy thrill of its own. He had no notion where he was going. He hardly cared. The one great thing was to be going away--away from those rooms, from the trifling, irritating Hy, from the impossible Peter. He walked over to the bus station, set down his suit-case on the sidewalk, felt in his pockets to see if he had any money. He was always getting caught without it. He had given that taxi man an even bill. Apparently he was without it again. But in one pocket he found three keys that jingled together in his hand. He caught his breath; threw back his head and stared straight up through the trees at the stars. “My God!” he whispered--“my God!”