It was not only that Cynthia had suddenly and inevitably become a lady.  That would not have mattered, for such as she would have borne Coniston and the life of Coniston cheerfully.  But Bob reflected, as he walked back to his rooms in the dark through the snow-laden streets, that Cynthia, young though she might be, possessed principles from which no love would sway her a hair’s breadth.  How, indeed, was she to live with Jethro once her eyes were opened?

The thought made him angry, but returned to him persistently during the days that followed,—­in the lecture room, in the gymnasium, in his own study, where he spent more time than formerly.  By these tokens it will be perceived that Bob, too, had changed a little.  And the sight of Cynthia in Mrs. Merrill’s parlor had set him to thinking in a very different manner than the sight of her in Washington had affected him.  Bob had managed to shift the subject from Jethro, not without an effort, though he had done it in that merry, careless manner which was so characteristic of him.  He had talked of many things,—­his college life, his friends,—­and laughed at her questions about his freshman escapades.  But when at length, at twilight, he had risen to go, he had taken both her hands and looked down into her face with a very different expression than she had seen him wear before—­a much more serious expression, which puzzled her.  It was not the look of a lover, nor yet that of a man who imagines himself in love.  With either of these her instinct would have told her how to deal.  It was more the look of a friend, with much of the masculine spirit of protection in it.

“May I come to see you again?” he asked.

Gently she released her hands, and she did not answer at once.  She went to the window, and stared across the sloping street at the grilled railing before the big house opposite, thinking.  Her reason told her that he should not come, but her spirit rebelled against that reason.  It was a pleasure to see him, so she freely admitted to herself.  Why should she not have that pleasure?  If the truth be told, she had argued it all out before, when she had wondered whether he would come.  Mrs. Merrill, she thought, would not object to his coming.  But—­there was the question she had meant to ask him.

“Bob,” she said, turning to him, “Bob, would your father want you to come?”

It was growing dark, and she could scarcely see his face.  He hesitated, but he did not attempt to evade the question.

“No, he would not,” he answered.  And added, with a good deal of force and dignity:  “I am of age, and can choose my own friends.  I am my own master.  If he knew you as I knew you, he would look at the matter in a different light.”

Cynthia felt that this was not quite true.  She smiled a little sadly.

“I am afraid you don’t know me very well, Bob.”  He was about to protest, but she went on, bravely, “Is it because he has quarrelled with Uncle Jethro?”