“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.”

“It’s better to make a fool of one’s self than to make a fool of some one else,” said Westover, oracularly.

“Yes,” said Jeff, apparently finding nothing more definite in the oracle than people commonly find in oracles.  “But I think,” he went on, with a touch of bitterness, “that her mother might have told me that she was engaged—­or the same as engaged.”

“I don’t know that she was bound to take you seriously, or to suppose you took yourself so, at your age and with your prospects in life.  If you want to know”—­Westover faltered, and then went on—­“she began to be kind to you because she was afraid that you might think she didn’t take your coming home second-cabin in the right way; and one thing led to another.  You mustn’t blame her for what’s happened.”

Westover defended Mrs. Vostrand, but he did not feel strong in her defence; he was not sure that Durgin was quite wrong, absurd as he had been.  He sat down and looked up at his visitor under his brows.