“By George!” exclaimed the young artist, “it’s a reason for my running Fernando Witherlee into something else, and that’s a broken neck, I’m thinking. Cursed rascal!”
“What’s Witherlee been up to now?” inquired Harrington, with sudden interest.
“Impudence,” replied Wentworth. “Impudence unparalleled. Listen, Harrington. John Todd says Witherlee came into the fencing-school this morning, and had the atrocious impudence—the abominable—the infernal”—
Wentworth stopped, gasping with rage.
“O Muse of adjectives, descend!” jocosely cried Harrington, lifting his hand in mock-heroic invocation, with his cheeks wrinkled in a rich smile.
Wentworth, thus prayed for, began to laugh, even in the midst of his fury.
“Well, Harrington,” said he, “I know it’s foolish to get excited about it, but upon my word, Witherlee behaves scandalously. Do you know that he has been telling Bagasse a long rigmarole about Muriel and Emily, and you and me. Bagasse! Now just think of it! Think of his talking of two ladies like those, and in such a connection, and to Bagasse! Yes, of all persons in the world, to Bagasse!”
Harrington’s color changed and his face puckered with amazement, while he nervously grasped the arms of his chair.
“Is Witherlee possessed!” he ejaculated. “Why, I never heard of such conduct. So boyish, so foolish, such an outrage against the fitness of things”—
“And so infamously impudent,” put in Wentworth. “It’s the impudence that strikes me.”