other, and he knew too well his mother's slight
for Whitwell to suppose that he could have influenced her. His mind
turned in momentary suspicion to Westover. Had Westover, he wondered,
with a purpose to pay him up for it forming itself simultaneously with
his question, been setting his mother against him? She might have written
to Westover to get at the true inwardness of his behavior, and Westover
might have written her something that had made her harden her heart
against him. But upon reflection this seemed out of character for both of
them; and Jeff was thrown back upon his mother's sober second thought of
his misconduct for an explanation of her coldness. He could not deny that
he had grievously disappointed her in several ways. But he did not see
why he should not take a certain hint from her letter, or construct a
hint from it, at one with a vague intent prompted by his own restless and
curious vanity. Since he had parted with Bessie Lynde, on terms of
humiliation for her which must have been anguish for him if he had ever
loved her, or loved anything but his power over her, he had remained in
absolute ignorance of her. He had not heard where she was or how she was;
but now, as the few weeks before Class Day and Commencement crumbled
away, he began to wonder why she made no sign. He believed that since she
had been willing to go so far to get him, she would not be willing to
give him up so easily. The thought of Cynthia had always intruded more or
less effectively between them, but now that this thought began to fade
into the past, the thought of Bessie began to grow out of it with no
interposing shadow.

However, Jeff was in no hurry. It was not passion that moved him, and the
mood in which he could play with the notion of getting back to his
flirtation with Bessie Lynde was pleasanter after the violence of recent
events than any renewal of strong sensations could be. He preferred to
loiter in this mood, and he was meantime much more comfortable than he
had been for a great while. He was rid of the disagreeable sense of
disloyalty to Cynthia, and he was rid of the stress of living up to her
conscience in various ways. He was rid of Bessie Lynde, too, and of the
trouble of forecasting and discounting her caprices. His thought turned
at times with a soft regret to hopes, disappointments, experiences
connected with neither, and now tinged with a tender melancholy,
unalloyed by shame or remorse. As he drew nearer to