“No!” She stopped, and then she asked, with a kind of gentle bewilderment: “What did you want to tell me for?”
“To let you break with me—if you wanted to.”
“Don't you care for me any more?”
“Yes, more than ever I did. But I'm not fit for you, Cynthia. Mr. Westover said I wasn't. I told him about it—”
“What did he say?”
“That I ought to break with you.”
“But if you broke with her?”
“He told me to stick to her. He was right about you, Cynthy. I'm not fit for you, and that's a fact.”
“What was it about that girl? Tell me everything.” She spoke in a tone of plaintive entreaty, very unlike the command she once used with Jeff when she was urging him to be frank with her and true to himself. They had come to her father's house and she freed her hand from his arm again, and sat down on the step before the side door with a little sigh as of fatigue.
“You'll take cold,” said Jeff, who remained on foot in front of her.