“Yes,” said Westover, “but the wrong things don't happen from people who are in the habit of meaning the right ones.”
“I believe they do, fully half the time,” Jeff returned; “and, as far as the grand result is concerned, you might as well think them and intend them as not. I don't mean that you ought to do it; that's another thing, and if I had tried to get Lynde drunk, and then gone to dance with his sister, I should have been what you say I am. But I saw him getting worse without meaning to make him so; and I went back to her because—I wanted to.”
“And you think, I suppose,” said Westover, “that she wouldn't have cared any more than you cared if she had known what you did.”
“I can't say anything about that.”
The painter continued, bitterly: “You used to come in here, the first year, with notions of society women that would have disgraced a Goth, or a gorilla. Did you form your estimate of Miss Lynde from those premises?”
“I'm not a boy now,” Jeff answered, “and I haven't stayed all the kinds of a fool I was.”
“Then you don't think Miss Lynde would speak to you, or look at you, after she knew what you had done?”
“I should like to tell her and see,” said Jeff, with a hardy laugh. “But I guess I sha'n't have the chance. I've never been a favorite in society, and I don't expect to meet her again.”
“Perhaps you'd like to have me tell her?”
“Why, yes, I believe I should, if you could tell me what she thought—not what she said about it.”