Westover did not find that he had anything useful to say to this; so he said: “I've no doubt it's better than being a painter.”
“I'm not so sure; three hundred dollars for a little thing like that.” She indicated the photograph of his Lion's Head, and she was evidently so proud of it that he reserved for the moment the truth as to the price he had got for the painting. “I was surprised when you sent me a photograph full as big. I don't let every one in here, but a good many of the ladies are artists themselves-amateurs, I guess—and first and last they all want to see it. I guess they'll all want to see you, Mr. Westover. They'll be wild, as they call it, when they know you're in the house. Yes, I mean Jeff shall go to college.”
“Bowdoin or Dartmouth?” Westover suggested.
“Well, I guess you'll think I'm about as forth-putting as I was when I wanted you to give me a three-hundred-dollar picture for a week's board.”
“I only got a hundred and sixty, Mrs. Durgin,” said Westover, conscientiously.
“Well, it's a shame. Any rate, three hundred's the price to all my boarders. My, if I've told that story once, I guess I've told it fifty times!”
Mrs. Durgin laughed at herself jollily, and Westover noted how prosperity had changed her. It had freed her tongue, it has brightened her humor, it had cheered her heart; she had put on flesh, and her stalwart frame was now a far greater bulk than he remembered.
“Well, there,” she said, “the long and the short of it is, I want Jeff should go to Harvard.”
He commanded himself to say: “I don't see why he shouldn't.”
Mrs. Durgin called out, “Come in, Jackson,” and Westover looked round and saw the elder son like a gaunt shadow in the doorway. “I've just got where I've told Mr. Westover where I want Jeff should go. It don't seem to have ca'd him off his feet any, either.”