ey got out
upon the street. "Hadn't I ought to let Jeff know?"

"Yes, at once. You'd better cable him. Have you got his address?"

Whitwell had it, and he tasted all the dramatic quality of sending
word to Jeff, which he would receive in Florence an hour after it left
Boston. "I did hope I could ha' cabled once to Jackson while he was
gone," he said, regretfully, "but, unless we can fix up a wire with the
other world, I guess I shan't ever do it now. I suppose Jackson's still
hangin' round Mars, some'res."

He had a sectarian pride in the beauty of the Spiritual Temple which
Westover walked him by on his way to see Trinity Church and the Fine
Arts Museum, and he sorrowed that he could not attend a service'
there. But he was consoled by the lunch which he had with Westover at
a restaurant where it was served in courses. "I presume this is what
Jeff's goin' to give 'em at Lion's Head when he gits it goin' again."

"How is it he's in Florence?" it occurred to Westover to ask. "I thought
he was going to Nice for the winter."

"I don't know. That's the address he give in his last letter," said
Whitwell. "I'll be glad when I've done with him for good and all. He's
all kinds of a devil."

It was in Westover's mind to say that he wished the Whitwells had never
had anything to do with Durgin after his mother's death. He had felt it
a want of delicacy in them that they had been willing to stay on in his
employ, and his ideal of Cynthia had suffered a kind of wound from
what must have been her decision in the matter. He would have expected
something altogether different from her pride, her self-respect. But
he now merely said: "Yes, I shall be glad, too. I'm afraid he's a bad
fellow."

His words seemed to appeal to Whitwell's impartiality. "Well, I d' know
as I should say bad, exactly. He's a mixture."

"He's a bad mixture," said Westover.

"Well, I guess you're partly right there," Whitwell admitted, with a
laugh. After a dreamy moment he asked: "Ever hear anything more about
that girl here in Boston?"

Westover knew that he meant Bessie Lynde. "She's abroad somewhere, with
her aunt."

Whitwell had not taken any wine; apparently he was afraid of forming
instantly the habit of drink if he touched it; but he tolerated
Westover's pint of Zinfandel, and he seemed to warm sympathetically to a
greater confidence as the painter made away with it. "There's one thing
I never told Cynthy yet; well, Jombateeste didn't tell me