you think, I suppose," said Westover, "that she wouldn't have cared
any more than you cared if she had known what you did."

"I can't say anything about that."

The painter continued, bitterly: "You used to come in here, the first
year, with notions of society women that would have disgraced a Goth,
or a gorilla. Did you form your estimate of Miss Lynde from those
premises?"

"I'm not a boy now," Jeff answered, "and I haven't stayed all the kinds
of a fool I was."

"Then you don't think Miss Lynde would speak to you, or look at you,
after she knew what you had done?"

"I should like to tell her and see," said Jeff, with a hardy laugh.
"But I guess I sha'n't have the chance. I've never been a favorite in
society, and I don't expect to meet her again."

"Perhaps you'd like to have me tell her?"

"Why, yes, I believe I should, if you could tell me what she
thought--not what she said about it."

"You are a brute," answered Westover, with a puzzled air. What puzzled
him most and pleased him least was the fellow's patience under his
severity, which he seemed either not to feel or not to mind. It was of
a piece with the behavior of the rascally boy whom he had cuffed for
frightening Cynthia and her little brother long ago, and he wondered
what final malevolence it portended.

Jeff said, as if their controversy were at an end and they might now
turn to more personal things: "You look pretty slim, Mr. Westover. A'n't
there something I can do for you-get you? I've come in with a message
from mother. She says if you ever want to get that winter view of Lion's
Head, now's your time. She wants you to come up there; she and Cynthia
both do. They can make you as comfortable as you please, and they'd like
to have a visit from you. Can't you go?"

Westover shook his head ruefully. "It's good of them, and I want you to
thank them for me. But I don't know when I'm going to get out again."

"Oh, you'll soon get out," said Jeff. "I'm going to look after you a
little," and this time Westover was too weak to protest. He did not
forbid Jeff's taking off his overcoat; he suffered him to light his
spirit-lamp and make a punch of the whiskey which he owned the doctor
was giving him; and when Jeff handed him the steaming glass, and asked
him, "How's that?" he answered, with a pleasure in it which he knew to
be deplorable, "It's fine."

Jeff stayed the whole evening with him, and made him more comfortable
than he had been since his c