“Did that make her willing to give you up?”
Jeff checked himself in a sort of retrospective laugh. “I'm not so sure. I guess she liked the excitement of that, too. You couldn't understand the kind of girl she—She wanted to flirt with me that night I brought him home tipsy.”
“I don't care to hear any more about her. Why did you give her up?”
“Because I didn't care for her, and I did care for you, Cynthy.”
“I don't believe it.” Cynthia rose from the step, where she had been sitting, as if with renewed strength. “Go up and tell father to come down here. I want to see him.” She turned and put her hand on the latch of the door.
“You're not going in there, Cynthia,” said Jeff. “It must be like death in there.”
“It's more like death out here. But if it's the cold you mean, you needn't be troubled. We've had a fire to-day, airing out the house. Will you go?”
“But what do you—what are you going to say to me?”
“I don't know, yet. If I said anything now, I should tell you what Mr. Westover did: go back to that girl, if she'll let you. You're fit for each other, as he said. Did you tell her that you were engaged to some one else?”
“I did, last night.”