reat comfort in the prospect.

"I shall not put them on," he said. "I know I sha'n't. I shall forget
all about them, and forget to eat at regular times, and to--ah--keep
my head covered in the sun. Why, do you know," he added, in a burst of
confidence and quite as if he had not said the same thing before,
"when I am by myself I always forget things like that, things that real
people--ah--normal people, remember. Then I have--ah--indigestion and
headaches and all sorts of miserable ailments. I shall forget again, of
course, and my friends, the normal ones, will tell me, as they always
do, that I need a--ah--keeper, so to speak. Oh, dear, yes."

She was indignant. "A keeper!" she repeated. "The idea! I do wish you
wouldn't keep speakin' of yourself as simple-minded or crazy, Mr. Bangs.
You are absent-minded, I know, but what of it? Whose business is that?"

He rubbed his chin. "Why, here," he observed, smiling slightly, "you
have been kind enough to make it YOUR business, Miss Martha. The reason
I do not have--ah--sunstrokes and colds and headaches here is that you
take pains to see that I am protected against their causes. I realize
that. And I realize, too," he added, "that in Egypt I shall miss
your--your great kindness. I shall miss all this--this room and
all--very much, indeed. I think--no, I know I have never spent such a
pleasant year as this has been. And I fear I shall never spend another
as pleasant."

She laughed, but she looked pleased, nevertheless.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "You'll have many more a great deal
pleasanter, of course. You're well now, Mr. Bangs, and good health makes
such a difference. You will enjoy your work more than ever."

"Will I? I don't believe I shall. That is very odd, I know, but I
think it is true. I have been thinking about it a great deal of late
and--ah--I--well, you know, I am very sure I shall be lonely."

"Lonely? You! Lonesome over in Egypt, after all you've told me about
your lovin' it so, Mr. Bangs! Lonesome for what, for mercy sakes?"

"Why, for--for the Cape, you know; and this house and this pleasant room
and--and the kindness which has been shown me here."

"Don't. What do what you call kindnesses amount to--the little things
Primmie and I have been able to do for you--what do they amount to
compared to what you did for me? I shouldn't be in this house, I
shouldn't own it, if it wasn't for the interest you took and the trouble
you went to. Lonesome! I think