``Good-by, Winston,'' Mr. Jack said, giving a final set to his hat. ``Look out for those movers!'' Winston watched him hurry down the drive to his car; a handsome, fine-looking man it made him proud to see.

After Mr. Jack drove away, Winston went on looking out the window. He noticed a speck of dirt on the sill and swiped at it with his finger. Then he looked at his finger, at the wrinkled, heavy knuckle and the thick nail he used like a knife to pry up, slit, and open. For the first time, he let himself be sad about the move. That house was ten years off his life. Each brass handle and hinge shone for his reward, and he knew how to get at the dust in the china flowers and how to take down the long glass drops which hung from the chandelier. He knew the house like a blind man, through his fingers, and he did not like to think of all the time and rags and polishes he had spent on keeping it up.

Ten years ago, he had come to the house to be interviewed. The tulips and the big pink peonies had been blooming along the drive, and he had walked up from the bus almost singing. Miss Ada had been out back, in a straw hat, planting flowers. She had talked to him right there, with the hot sun in his face, which made him sweat and feel ashamed. Winston had been surprised at her for that. Still, he had liked the way she had looked, in a fresh, neat cotton dress -- citron yellow, if he remembered. She had had a dignity about her, even barefoot and almost too tan.