Westover had a glimpse of the innate enmity of the sexes in this game; of its presence in passion that was lived and of its prevalence in passion that was played.  But the fate of neither gambler concerned him; he was impatient of his interest in what Jeff now went on to tell him, without scruple concerning her, or palliation of himself.  He scarcely realized that he was listening, but afterward he remembered it all, with a little pity for Bessie and none for Jeff, but with more shame for her, too.  Love seems more sacredly confided to women than to men; it is and must be a higher and finer as well as a holier thing with them; their blame for its betrayal must always be the heavier.  He had sometimes suspected Bessie’s willingness to amuse herself with Jeff, as with any other man who would let her play with him; and he would not have relied upon anything in him to defeat her purpose, if it had been anything so serious as a purpose.

At the end of Durgin’s story he merely asked:  “And what are you going to do about Cynthia?”

“I am going to tell her,” said Jeff.  “That’s what I am going up there for.”

Westover rose, but Jeff remained sitting where he had put himself astride of a chair, with his face over the back.  The painter walked slowly up and down before him in the capricious play of the street light.  He turned a little sick, and he stopped a moment at the window for a breath of air.

“Well?” asked Jeff.

“Oh!  You want my advice?” Westover still felt physically incapable of the indignation which he strongly imagined.  “I don’t know what to say to you, Durgin.  You transcend my powers.  Are you able to see this whole thing yourself?”

“I guess so,” Jeff answered.  “I don’t idealize it, though.  I look at facts; they’re bad enough.  You don’t suppose that Miss Lynde is going to break her heart over—­”

“I don’t believe I care for Miss Lynde any more than I care for you.  But I believe I wish you were not going to break with her.”

“Why?”

“Because you and she are fit for each other.  If you want my advice, I advise you to be true to her—­if you can.”

“And Cynthia?”

“Break with her.”

“Oh!” Jeff gave a snort of derision.

“You’re not fit for her.  You couldn’t do a crueler thing for her than to keep faith with her.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes, I mean it.  Stick to Miss Lynde—­if she’ll let you.”

Jeff seemed puzzled by Westover’s attitude, which was either too sincere or too ironical for him.  He pushed his hat, which he had kept on, back from his forehead.  “Damned if I don’t believe she would,” he mused aloud.  The notion seemed to flatter him and repay him for what he must have been suffering.  He smiled, but he said:  “She wouldn’t do, even if she were any good.  Cynthia is worth a million of her.  If she wants to give me up after she knows all about me, well and good.  I shu’n’t blame her.  But I shall give her a fair chance, and I shu’n’t whitewash myself; you needn’t be afraid of that, Mr. Westover.”