“Oh, I don’t care for that.  All I want to be certain of is that the feeling I have is really—­the feeling.”

“I know, dear,” said Westover, and his heart surged toward her in his tenderness for her simple conscience, her wise question.  “Take time.  Don’t hurry.  Forget what I’ve said—­or no; that’s absurd!  Think of it; but don’t let anything but the truth persuade you.  Now, good-night, Cynthia.”

“Good-night—­Mr. Westover.”

“Mr. Westover” he reproached her.

She stood thinking, as if the question were crucial.  Then she said, firmly, “I should always have to call you Mr. Westover.”

“Oh, well,” he returned, “if that’s all!”