The question makes Harold come back to himself with a snap, and he promptly frowns at John. He hates answering personal questions and this one definitely counts.

"I know enough to train a computer in object recognition, Mr. Reese, not to answer your questions about the meaning of life," he says crisply. Harold climbs to his feet and goes to the kitchen cabinets to recover a set of tupperware. "You seem to be adequately recovered. Thank you for dinner."

It's a clear dismissal, that he's going to pack up his leftovers and leave. But it's also a return to form, a comforting regression to the mean on their standard exchanges. If this were a safehouse in New York, if there was another number tomorrow, Harold would depart just this way.