the Public Library,
and the Old South Church, and he had not been sandbagged or buncoed
or led astray from the paths of propriety. In the comfortable sense
of escape, he was disposed, to moralize upon the civilization of great
cities, which he now witnessed at first hand for the first time; and
throughout the evening, between the acts of the "Old Homestead,"
which he found a play of some merit, but of not so much novelty in its
characters as he had somehow led himself to expect, he recurred to the
difficulties and dangers that must beset a young man in coming to a
place like Boston. Westover found him less amusing than he had on his
own ground at Lion's Head, and tasted a quality of commonplace in his
deliverances which made him question whether he had not, perhaps, always
owed more to this environment than he had suspected. But they parted
upon terms of mutual respect and in the common hope of meeting again.
Whitwell promised to let Westover know what he heard of Jeff, but, when
the painter had walked the philosopher home to his hotel, he found a
message awaiting him at his studio from Jeff direct:

Whitwell's despatch received. Wait letter.
"DURGIN."

Westover raged at the intelligent thrift of this telegram, and at the
implication that he not only knew all about the business of Whitwell's
despatch, but that he was in communication with him, and would be
sufficiently interested to convey Jeff's message to him. Of course,
Durgin had at once divined that Whitwell must have come to him for
advice, and that he would hear from him, whether he was still in Boston
or not. By cabling to Westover, Jeff saved the cost of an elaborate
address to Whitwell at Lion's Head, and had brought the painter in for
further consultation and assistance in his affairs. What vexed him still
more was his own consciousness that he could not defeat this impudent
expectation. He had, indeed, some difficulty with himself to keep from
going to Whitwell's hotel with the despatch at once, and he slept badly,
in his fear that he might not get it to him in the morning before he
left town.

The sum of Jeff's letter when it came, and it came to Westover and not
to Whitwell, was to request the painter to see a lawyer in his behalf,
and put his insurance policies in his hands, with full authority to
guard his interests in the matter. He told Westover where his policies
would be found, and enclosed the key of his box in the Safet