One day toward the end of April, when several weeks had passed without bringing Westover any word from Cynthia, her father presented himself, and enjoyed in the painter's surprise the sensation of having dropped upon him from the clouds. He gave due accounts of the health of each of his household; ending with Jombateeste. “You know he's out at the brick, as he calls it, in Cambridge.”
“Cynthia said he was coming. I didn't know he had come yet,” said Westover. “I must go out and look him up, if you think I could find him among all those Canucks.”
“Well, I don't know but you'd better look us up at the same time,” said Whitwell, with additional pleasure in the painter's additional surprise. “I guess we're out in Cambridge, too,” he added, at Westover's start of question. “We're out there, visitin' one of our summer folks, as you might say. Remember Mis' Fredericks?”
“Why, what the deuce kept you from telling me so at once?” Westover demanded, indignantly.
“Guess I hadn't got round to it,” said Whitwell, with dry relish.
“Do you mean that Cynthia's there?”
“Well, I guess they wouldn't cared much for a visit from me.”
Whitwell took advantage of Westover's moment of mystification to explain that Jeff had written over to him from Italy, offering him a pretty good rent for his house, which he wanted to occupy while he was rebuilding Lion's Head. He was going to push the work right through in the summer, and be ready for the season the year after. That was what Whitwell understood, and he understood that Jeff's family was going to stay in Lovewell, but Jeff himself wanted to be on the ground day and night.
“So that's kind of turned us out of doors, as you may say, and Cynthia's always had this idee of comin' down Boston way: and she didn't know anybody that could advise with her as well as Mis' Fredericks, and she wrote to her, and Mis' Fredericks answered her to come right down and talk it over.” Westover felt a pang of resentment that Cynthia, had not turned to him for counsel, but he said nothing, and Whitwell went on: “She said she was, ashamed to bother you, you'd had the whole neighborhood on your hands so much, and so she wrote to Mis' Fredericks.”
Westover had a vague discomfort in it all, which ultimately defined itself as a discontent with the willingness of the Whitwells to let Durgin occupy their house upon any terms, for any purpose, and a lingering grudge that Cynthia should have asked help of any one but himself, even from a motive of delicacy.