a moment in apparent silence, after she had spoken.  He sat erect and faced her, and this gave his profile, too.  He must have spoken, for she shook her head again; and then, at other words from him, nodded assentingly.  Then she listened motionlessly while he poured a rapid stream of visible but inaudible words.  He put out his hand, as if to take hers, but she put it behind her; Westover could see it white there against the belt of her dark dress.

Jeff went on more vehemently, but she remained steadfast, slowly shaking her head.  When he ended she spoke, and with something of his own energy; he made a gesture of submission, and when she rose he rose, too.  She stood a moment, and with a gentle and almost entreating movement she put out her hand to him.  He stood looking down, with both his hands resting on the top of his stick, as if ignoring her proffer.  Then he suddenly caught her hand, held it a moment; dropped it, and walked quickly away without looking back.  Genevieve ran across the lawn and roadway toward the house.

“Oh, must, you go?” Mrs. Vostrand said to Westover.  He found that he had probably risen in sympathy with Jeff’s action.  He was not aware of an intention of going, but he thought he had better not correct Mrs. Vostrand’s error.

“Yes, I really must, now,” he said.

“Well, then,” she returned, distractedly, “do come often.”

He hurried out to avoid meeting Genevieve.  He passed her, on the public stairs of the house, but he saw that she did not recognize him in the dim light.

Late that night he was startled by steps that seemed to be seeking their way up the stairs to his landing, and then by a heavy knock on his door.  He opened it, and confronted Jeff Durgin.

“May I come in, Mr. Westover?” he asked, with unwonted deference.

“Yes, come in,” said Westover, with no great relish, setting his door open, and then holding onto it a moment, as if he hoped that, having come in, Jeff might instantly go out again.

His reluctance was lost upon Jeff, who said, unconscious of keeping his hat on:  “I want to talk with you—­I want to tell you something—­”

“All right.  Won’t you sit down?”

At this invitation Jeff seemed reminded to take his hat off, and he put it on the floor beside his chair.  “I’m not in a scrape, this time—­or, rather, I’m in the worst kind of a scrape, though it isn’t the kind that you want bail for.”

“Yes,” Westover prompted.

“I don’t know whether you’ve noticed—­and if you haven’t it don’t make any difference—­that I’ve seemed to—­care a good deal for Miss Vostrand?”

Westover saw no reason why he should not be frank, and said:  “Too much, I’ve fancied sometimes, for a student in his Sophomore year.”

“Yes, I know that.  Well, it’s over, whether it was too much or too little.”  He laughed in a joyless, helpless way, and looked deprecatingly at Westover.  “I guess I’ve been making a fool of myself—­that’s all.”