“Good,” continued Wentworth. “The next question is, how could I imagine that Harrington, with his heaven-fated wife before his eyes, could possibly love my Emily? And that I don’t know either, and can’t explain, except on the theory that I’m a complete fool, which I’m not.”
They all laughed merrily, Wentworth louder than any.
“And you, Muriel,” he pursued. “How could you imagine for a moment that Harrington loved anybody but you? Both of you in constant communion, in the fullest, and broadest, and closest sympathy with each other, how could you think that he loved Emily better than you?”
“Why, Richard,” returned Muriel, with bewitching gaiety, “since this is the hour of confession, let me confess that I don’t know.”
Wentworth laughed uproariously, and the rest joined him in his mirth.
“Well, Harrington,” he continued, in a minute, “you now. It’s not singular, of course, that you should have thought I loved Muriel; but in the name of all the gods at once, how could you think that she loved me? Where was your insight, Harrington?”
“Well, Richard,” said Harrington, jocosely, “this whole matter may be solved on the theory that we are not the wisest people in the world.”
“No, John, that won’t do,” returned Wentworth, “we’re not the wisest, but we’re wise enough not to be made fools of in anything but a love affair.”
“Well then, let us concede our wisdom,” replied Harrington, in the same jocose vein, “and solve the whole riddle with that deep maxim of my beloved Verulam, ‘Love is the folly of the wise.’”
“Good! I rest there,” said Wentworth, laughing. “Yes, my Lord Bacon, you’re right, love is the folly of the wise.”