The evening shadows are falling when Finch gets back. There's a light on in the library, shining on Reese as he sits reading, with his feet up on the table again. Solzhenitsyn this time; Finch can make out the worn cover of The Gulag Archipelago from across the room.

"You know, Harold," Reese observes as Finch enters, without looking up from the book, "human interaction isn't really as mysterious as you might think."

Harold halts near the door. "I beg your pardon?"

"Generosity." John turns a page. "That's a human quality. Kindness, compassion—taking care of people. All human traits."

Harold's expression is carefully blank as he limps into the room.

"Or unselfishness." John is studying the page as if something fascinating were crawling across it. "Even sacrifice."

"Mr. Reese." Standing beside him, Harold speaks with an authority that makes his associate finally look up, then casts a meaningful glance at that associate's feet. Obediently, John slides them off the table.

"Concern for furniture." John nods thoughtfully as he closes Solzhenitsyn and stands up. "Definitely human."

He places the book in the hand that Harold is holding out. The other man's head is lowered a little, but John's sharp eyes don't miss the slight upward tug of one side of his mouth. And as Harold steps toward the shelves to replace the book, John detects an unaccustomed note of lightness in the voice that floats back to him: "Good night, Mr. Reese."

John smiles at his employer's back before turning to go. "Good night, Harold."