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?”