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Updated: June 27, 2025
He was dead against it, and it broke him up consid'able when she would have him: Well, one night the old stand burnt up and him in it, and neither of 'em insured." Whitwell laughed with a pleasure in his satire which gave the monuments in his lower jaw a rather sinister action. But, as if he felt a rebuke in Westover's silence, he added: "There ain't anything against Mis' Durgin.
Still she did not go, and there was an interval in which she had the air of vaguely waiting. To Westover's vision, the young people still passing to and from the ballroom were like the painted figures of a picture quickened with sudden animation.
"And I guess she'll be glad you sent word. She's been wondering what you would say; she's always so afraid of you." "Is she? You're not afraid of me, are you? But perhaps you don't think so much of me." "I guess Cynthia and I think alike on that point," said Jeff, without abating Westover's discomfort. There was a stress of sharp cold that year about the 20th of August.
They had been good comrades since the first evil day; they had become good friends even; and Westover was touched by the boy's devotion at parting. He helped the painter get his pack together in good shape, and he took pride in strapping it on Westover's shoulders, adjusting and readjusting it with care, and fastening it so that all should be safe and snug.
The young fellow followed satirically at his mother's elbow, and made a mock of her pride in it, trying to catch Westover's eye when she led him through the kitchen with its immense range, and introduced him to a new chef, who wiped his hand on his white apron to offer it to Westover.
He fixed his eyes on the flaming planets, in a long stare. "But I suppose they have their own troubles, same as we do. They must get sick and die, like the rest of us. But I should like to know more about 'em. You believe it's inhabited, don't you?" Westover's agnosticism did not, somehow, extend to Mars. "Yes, I've no doubt of it." Jackson seemed pleased.
He asked about all the folks, and received Westover's replies with vague laughter, and an absence in his bold eye, which made the painter wonder what his mind was on, without the wish to find out. He was glad to have him go, though he pressed him to drop in soon again, and said they would take in a play together.
"Then you think he's shown sense in choosin' of her?" pursued Jeff's mother, resolute to find some praise of him in Westover's words. "He's a very fortunate man," said the painter. "Well, I guess you're right," Mrs. Durgin acquiesced, as much to Jeff's advantage as she could.
"And I guess she'll be glad you sent word. She's been wondering what you would say; she's always so afraid of you." "Is she? You're not afraid of me, are you? But perhaps you don't think so much of me." "I guess Cynthia and I think alike on that point," said Jeff, without abating Westover's discomfort. There was a stress of sharp cold that year about the 20th of August.
If Durgin chose to show the Vostrands what he should write, very well; if he chose not to show it, then Westover's apparent silence would be a sufficient reply to Mrs. Vostrand's appeal.
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