“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.”
“Why should I care what you do?” asked the painter, scornfully.
“Well, you can't, on my account,” Durgin allowed. “But you do care on her account.”
“Yes, I do,” said Westover, sitting down again, and he did not say anything more.
Durgin waited a long while for him to speak before he asked: “Then that's really your advice, is it?”