“You’re very swell,” said Westover, halting him to take full note of it.

“Like it?  Well, I knew you’d understand what it meant.  Mother thinks it’s a little too rowdy-looking.  Her idea is black broadcloth frock-coat and doeskin trousers for a gentleman, you know.”  He laughed with a young joyousness, and then became serious.  “Couple of ladies here, somewhere, I’d like to introduce you to.  Came over with me from the depot last night.  Very nice people, and I’d like to make it pleasant for them—­get up something—­go somewhere—­and when you see their style you can judge what it had better be.  Mrs. Vostrand and her daughter.”

“Thank you,” said Westover.  “I think I know them already at least one of them.  I used to go to Mrs. Vostrand’s house in Florence.”

“That so?  Well, fact is, I crossed with them; but I came second-cabin, because I’d spent all my money, and I didn’t get acquainted with them on the ship, but we met in the train coming up last night.  Said they had heard of Lion’s Head on the other side from friends.  But it was quite a coincidence, don’t you think?  I’d like to have them see what this neighborhood really is; and I wish, Mr. Westover, you’d find out, if you can, what they’d like.  If they’re for walking, we could get Whitwell to personally conduct a party, and if they’re for driving, I’d like to show them a little mountain-coaching myself.”

“I don’t know whether I’d better not leave the whole thing to you, Jeff,” Westover said, after a moment’s reflection.  “I don’t see exactly how I could bring the question into a first interview.”

“Well, perhaps it would be rather rushing it.  But, if I get up something, you’ll come, Mr. Westover?”

“I will, with great pleasure,” said Westover, and he went to make his call.

A half-hour later he was passing the door of the old parlor which Mrs. Durgin still kept for hers, on his way up to his room, when a sound of angry voices came out to him.  Then the voice of Mrs. Durgin defined itself in the words:  “I’m not goin’ to have to ask any more folks for their rooms on your account, Jeff Durgin—­Mr. Westover!  Mr. Westover, is that you?” her voice broke off to call after him as he hurried by, “Won’t you come in here a minute?”

He hesitated, and then Jeff called, “Yes, come in, Mr. Westover.”

The painter found him sitting on the old hair-cloth sofa, with his stick between his hands and knees, confronting his mother, who was rocking excitedly to and fro in the old hair-cloth easy-chair.

“You know these folks that Jeff’s so crazy about?” she demanded.

“Crazy!” cried Jeff, laughing and frowning at the same time.  “What’s crazy in wanting to go off on a drive and choose your own party?”

“Do you know them?” Mrs. Durgin repeated to Westover.

“The Vostrands?  Why, yes.  I knew Mrs. Vostrand in Italy a good many years ago, and I’ve just been calling on her and her daughter, who was a little girl then.”