“Mr. Bass,” he said at last, “did Cynthia ever mention me to you?”

“No,” said Jethro.

“Mr. Bass, I love her.  I have told her so, and I have asked her to be my wife.”

There was no need, indeed, to have told Jethro this.  The shock of that revelation had come to him when he had seen the trotters, had been confirmed when the young man had stood before the portrait.  Jethro’s face might have twitched when Bob stood there with his back to him.

Jethro could not speak.  Once more there had come to him a moment when he would not trust his voice to ask a question.  He dreaded the answer, though none might have surmised this.  He knew Cynthia.  He knew that, when she had given her heart, it was for all time.  He dreaded the answer; because it might mean that her sorrow was doubled.

“I believe,” Bob continued painfully, seeing that Jethro would say nothing, “I believe that Cynthia loves me.  I should not dare to say it or to hope it, without reason.  She has not said so, but—­” the words were very hard for him, yet he stuck manfully to the truth; “but she told me to write to my father and let him know what I had done, and not to come back to her until I had his answer.  This,” he added, wondering that a man could listen to such a thing without a sign, “this was before—­before she had any idea of coming home.”

Yes, Cynthia, did love him.  There was no doubt about it in Jethro’s mind.  She would not have bade Bob write to his father if she had not loved him.  Still Jethro did not speak, but by some intangible force compelled Bob to go on.

“I shall write to my father as soon as he comes back from the West, but I wish to say to you, Mr. Bass, that whatever his answer contains, I mean to marry Cynthia.  Nothing can shake me from that resolution.  I tell you this because my father is fighting you, and you know what he will say.”  (Jethro knew Dudley Worthington well enough to appreciate that this would make no particular difference in his opposition to the marriage except to make that opposition more vehement.) “And because you do not know me,” continued Bob.  “When I say a thing, I mean it.  Even if my father cuts me off and casts me out, I will marry Cynthia.  Good-by, Mr. Bass.”

Jethro took the young man’s hand again.  Bob imagined that he even pressed it—­a little—­something he had never done before.

“Good-by, Bob.”

Bob got as far as the door.

“Er—­go back to Harvard, Bob?”

“I intend to, Mr. Bass.”

“Er—­Bob?”

“Yes?”

“D-don’t quarrel with your father—­don’t quarrel with your father.”

“I shan’t be the one to quarrel, Mr. Bass.”

“Bob—­hain’t you pretty young—­pretty young?”

“Yes,” said Bob, rather unexpectedly, “I am.”  Then he added, “I know my own mind.”

“P-pretty young.  Don’t want to get married yet awhile—­do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Bob, “but I suppose I shan’t be able to.”