“I wish I didn’t know where I was going to be,” said Jeff.  “Well, good-bye, Mr. Westover.  I’ll see you in Boston.”

“Oh, good-bye.”  The painter freed himself from his brush and palette for a parting handshake, reluctantly.

Jeff plunged down the hill, waving a final adieu from the corner of the hotel before he vanished round it.

Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter were at breakfast when Westover came in after the early light had been gone some time.  They entreated him to join them at their table, and the mother said:  “I suppose you were up soon enough to see young Mr. Durgin off.  Isn’t it too bad he has to go back to college when it’s so pleasant in the country?”

“Not bad for him,” said Westover.  “He’s a young man who can stand a great deal of hard work.”  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.  They spent their winters in Italy and their summers in Switzerland, where it seemed her son was still at his studies in Lausanne.  She wished him to go to Harvard, she said, and she supposed he would have to finish his preparation at one of the American schools; but she had left the choice entirely to Mr. Vostrand.

This seemed a strange event after twelve years’ stay in Europe for the education of her children, but Westover did not feel authorized to make any comment upon it.  He fell rather to thinking how very pleasant both mother and daughter were, and to wondering how much wisdom they had between them.  He reflected that men had very little wisdom, as far as he knew them, and he questioned whether, after all, the main difference between men and women might not be that women talked their follies and men acted theirs.  Probably Mrs. Vostrand, with all her babble, had done fewer foolish things than her husband, but here Westover felt his judgment disabled by the fact that he had never met her husband; and his mind began to wander to a question of her daughter, whom he had there before him.  He found himself bent upon knowing more of the girl, and trying to eliminate her mother from the talk, or, at least, to make Genevieve lead in it.  But apparently she was not one of the natures that like to lead; at any rate, she remained discreetly in abeyance, and Westover fancied she even respected her mother’s opinions and ideas.  He thought this very well for both of them, whether it was the effect of Mrs. Vostrand’s merit or Miss Vostrand’s training.  They seemed both of one exquisite gentleness, and of one sweet manner, which was rather elaborate and formal in expression.  They deferred to each other as politely as they deferred to him, but, if anything, the daughter deferred most.