“Pardon me, Richard,” interrupted Witherlee, with an air of great concern, “but this is the unkindest thing yet, and I do not understand what has got into you people’s minds this morning. Now, what in the world did I ever say to you against Harrington? Just tell me candidly—were not you at that time incensed with Harrington for something or other—I don’t know what?”
“I own I was,” replied Wentworth, twirling his moustache and blushing.
“Very well. And did I ever express anything more than sympathy with you in your irritation?” demanded Witherlee.
“Well, I admit,” replied Wentworth, “that what you said was in the form of sympathy with me. But then it led me to think more hardly of Harrington than I would have done.”
Witherlee laughed as if his throat was full of turtle at this.
“You’ll excuse me for laughing, Wentworth,” he remarked, “but this is exceedingly absurd. Here were you in a state of nervous resentment at Harrington, and because your fiery temper took my kindly-meant attempts at consolation as fresh fuel, you blame me! Now I put it to you, as a reasonable man, was I to blame because you wrong-headedly twisted my consolations against your friend?”
Wentworth colored deeply, and did not answer. The deuce take it, he thought: I am making myself ridiculous in all this: the fact is, I was in such a miserably jealous and irritable state, that, as he says, I turned everything topsy-turvy.
“Ah, me!” sighed Witherlee, sadly lifting his eyebrows, as one who thus expressed that this was the fate of friendship, loyalty, virtue of all sorts, in this wicked, wicked, wicked world.
“Well, Fernando,” said Wentworth, “I’m truly sorry—but stay, there’s another thing, and that’s not so easily explained. John Todd told me of a talk you had with Bagasse that same morning, about us four.”