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My own boy will be going there soon." "Well, there's no place like Harvard," said Jeff. "I'm in my Sophomore year now." "Oh, a Sophomore! Fancy!" cried Mrs. Vostrand, as if nothing could give her more pleasure. "My son is going to prepare at St. Mark's. Did you prepare there?" "No, I prepared at Lovewell Academy, over here." Jeff nodded in a southerly direction. "Oh, indeed!" said Mrs.
Vostrand, with a little mouth of deprecation. "In fact, we've just come home. We've been living there." "That so?" returned Whitwell, in humorous toleration. "Glad to get back, I presume?" "Oh yes yes," said Mrs. Vostrand, in a sort of willowy concession, as if the character before her were not to be crossed or gainsaid. "Well, it 'll do you good here," said Whitwell. "'N' the young lady, too.
But when there's anything goin' on that needs a head, they're both right on deck. "He don't let his wife worry about things a great deal; he's got a fust-rate of a housekeeper, but I guess old Mis' Vostrand keeps the housekeeper, as you may say.
"Oh, we should only be too happy," said the mother, and her daughter, from her inflection, knew that she would be willing to defer her happiness. But Jeff did not. "Mr. Whitwell!" he called out, and Whitwell came across the grass to the edge of the veranda. "I want to introduce you to Mrs. Vostrand and Miss Vostrand."
Vostrand, saying that, after all, he should not be able to come to Boston, but hoped to be in New York before she sailed. "Sailed!" cried Westover. "Why, yes! Didn't you know we were going to sail in June? I thought I had told you!" "No " "Why, yes. We must go out to poor Checco, now; Mr. Vostrand insists upon that. If ever we are a united family again, Mr. Westover if Mr.
He had on dark-gray trousers and sharp-pointed enamelled-leather shoes; and Westover grotesquely reflected that he was dressed, as he stood, to lead Genevieve Vostrand to the altar. Westover saw at once that when he made his studio tea for the Vostrands he must ask Jeff; it would be cruel, and for several reasons impossible, not to do so, and he really did not see why he should not. Mrs.
Her true heart and her clear mind would have been infallible in the affair, and he had trusted to his own muddled impulse. He began to write other letters: to Durgin, to Mrs. Vostrand, to Genevieve; but none of them satisfied him, and he let the days go by without doing anything to retrieve his error or fulfil his duty. At last he did what he ought to have done at first: he enclosed Mrs.
Whitwell took their slim hands successively into his broad, flat palm, and made Mrs. Vostrand repeat her name to him. "Strangers at Lion's Head, I presume?" Mrs. Vostrand owned as much; and he added: "Well, I guess you won't find a much sightlier place anywhere; though, accordin' to Jeff's say, here, they've got bigger mountains on the other side. Ever been in Europe?" "Why, yes," said Mrs.
Partly because he was a little tired of Jeff, and partly because he was embarrassed in their presence by the reason of his going, he turned the talk upon the days they had known together. Mrs. Vostrand was very willing to talk of her past, even apart from his, and she told him of her sojourn in Europe since her daughter had left school.
Before noon the next day a district messenger brought Westover a letter which he easily knew, from, the now belated tall, angular hand, to be from Mrs. Vostrand. It announced on a much criss-crossed little sheet that she and Genevieve were inconsolably taking a very sudden departure, and were going on the twelve-o'clock train to New York, where Mr. Vostrand was to meet them.
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