Whitwell nodded. "That's what Jombateeste said. Said Jeff said if he let
the feller look back he'd shoot him. But he didn't haf to."

"I can't make it out," Westover sighed.

"It's been too much for me," Whitwell said. "I told Jombateeste he'd
better keep it to himself, and I guess he done so. S'pose Jeff still had
a sneakin' fondness for the girl?"

"I don't know; perhaps," Westover asserted.

Whitwell threw his head back in a sudden laugh that showed all the work
of his dentist. "Well, wouldn't it be a joke if he was there in Florence
after her? Be just like Jeff."

"It would be like Jeff; I don't know whether it would be a joke or not. I
hope he won't find it a joke, if it's so," said Westover, gloomily. A
fantastic apprehension seized him, which made him wish for the moment
that it might be so, and which then passed, leaving him simply sorry for
any chance that might bring Bessie Lynde into the fellow's way again.

For the evening Whitwell's preference would have been a lecture of some
sort, but there was none advertised, and he consented to go with Westover
to the theatre. He came back to the painter at dinner-time, after a wary
exploration of the city, which had resulted not only in a personal
acquaintance with its monuments, but an immunity from its dangers and
temptations which he prided himself hardly less upon. He had seen Faneuil
Hall, the old State House, Bunker Hill, 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