“Good!” said Muriel, sinking into the chair, while Wentworth also seated himself—“and since we must speak of other things, let us speak of Witherlee.”
Wentworth reddened instantly.
“And he is a thing!” was his scornful answer. “I abhor him.”
“Abhor the good Fernando!” she exclaimed, with a jesting face. “Why Richard, I am astonished at you! Abhor so talented a young gentleman!”
“Talented!” scoffed Wentworth. “What has he a talent for?”
“A talent for poisoning, dear skeptic,” she replied, lightly. “A splendid talent for poisoning. No poisoner of the Middle Ages was ever more skillful.”
Wentworth looked confused.
“Poisoning? What do you mean?” he murmured.
“Only those old poisoners wrought on life,” she pursued, “while he, you know, works on character, minds, hearts. They could add a deadly perfume to a harmless rose. He, now, can do the same with an innocent bunch of violets.”