“Richard,” said Harrington, after an awkward pause, “pardon my rudeness, but I want to ask you a frank question, and I have a reason for asking it. Are you in—well, have you, as Witherlee said, one of Cupid’s arrows in your bleeding heart?”
Harrington tossed out the question gaily, but with a flushed face, and his heart beating. As for Wentworth he was scarlet to the roots of his hair, and with his eyes fixed on the floor, toyed with his moustache in great confusion.
“Oh, that wasn’t Witherlee’s phrase,” he stammered evasively. “That was my way of reporting what he said.”
“Well,” returned Harrington, “but is it true or not?”
Wentworth was silent for a moment.
“Suppose it is true. What then?” was his answer.
“It is true, then?” faltered Harrington.
Wentworth was still for a moment, then nodded affirmatively.
“Good!” exclaimed Harrington. “Richard, I give you joy. But now tell me—pardon my inquisitiveness—tell me which is the one?”
Wentworth felt himself in a corner, and with his face hot as fire, and his heart throbbing furiously, cast desperately about for some evasive answer.