For the evening Whitwell’s preference would have been a lecture of some sort, but there was none advertised, and he consented to go with Westover to the theatre.  He came back to the painter at dinner-time, after a wary exploration of the city, which had resulted not only in a personal acquaintance with its monuments, but an immunity from its dangers and temptations which he prided himself hardly less upon.  He had seen Faneuil Hall, the old State House, Bunker Hill, the Public Library, and the Old South Church, and he had not been sandbagged or buncoed or led astray from the paths of propriety.  In the comfortable sense of escape, he was disposed, to moralize upon the civilization of great cities, which he now witnessed at first hand for the first time; and throughout the evening, between the acts of the “Old Homestead,” which he found a play of some merit, but of not so much novelty in its characters as he had somehow led himself to expect, he recurred to the difficulties and dangers that must beset a young man in coming to a place like Boston.  Westover found him less amusing than he had on his own ground at Lion’s Head, and tasted a quality of commonplace in his deliverances which made him question whether he had not, perhaps, always owed more to this environment than he had suspected.  But they parted upon terms of mutual respect and in the common hope of meeting again.  Whitwell promised to let Westover know what he heard of Jeff, but, when the painter had walked the philosopher home to his hotel, he found a message awaiting him at his studio from Jeff direct: 

Whitwell’s despatch received.  Wait letter. 
“Durgin.”

Westover raged at the intelligent thrift of this telegram, and at the implication that he not only knew all about the business of Whitwell’s despatch, but that he was in communication with him, and would be sufficiently interested to convey Jeff’s message to him.  Of course, Durgin had at once divined that Whitwell must have come to him for advice, and that he would hear from him, whether he was still in Boston or not.  By cabling to Westover, Jeff saved the cost of an elaborate address to Whitwell at Lion’s Head, and had brought the painter in for further consultation and assistance in his affairs.  What vexed him still more was his own consciousness that he could not defeat this impudent expectation.  He had, indeed, some difficulty with himself to keep from going to Whitwell’s hotel with the despatch at once, and he slept badly, in his fear that he might not get it to him in the morning before he left town.

The sum of Jeff’s letter when it came, and it came to Westover and not to Whitwell, was to request the painter to see a lawyer in his behalf, and put his insurance policies in his hands, with full authority to guard his interests in the matter.  He told Westover where his policies would be found, and enclosed the key of his box in the Safety Vaults, with a due demand for Westover’s admission to it.  He registered his letter, and he jocosely promised Westover to do as much for him some day, in pleading that there was really no one else he could turn to.  He put the whole business upon him, and Westover discharged himself of it as briefly as he could by delivering the papers to the lawyer he had already consulted for Whitwell.