Wentworth paused to look at Witherlee, expecting to see him start and change color at this. Nothing of the sort. Witherlee’s eyebrows were up, and his eyes were their opaquest, and his face was perfectly discharged of all expression. But in his soul was the first shock of alarm, for he had not counted on his conversation with Bagasse being reported to Wentworth.
“Well,” said he, imperturbably, “what did John Todd say? You will first allow me to observe that it is not very creditable in him to have played the eavesdropper on a private conversation. And you will pardon me for remarking, Richard, that had I been in your place, my sense of honor would not have permitted me to listen to any gossip from him.”
Wentworth blushed deeply. Gallant, honorable fellow that he was, he half-mistrusted that he had not done right in letting John Todd make his report, and what Witherlee said, certainly seemed in the most punctilious spirit of chivalry. Witherlee, meanwhile, satisfied with having dealt Wentworth’s case a telling blow at the outset, rested in injured innocence, nervously impatient in spirit at the same time, to have the worst over with.
“I won’t excuse myself, Fernando,” said Wentworth, hurriedly. “But here is what the boy told me. In the first place, you mentioned the names of these two ladies to Bagasse. Now, that was not decorous”—
“Why not?” demanded Witherlee. “Just consider that what I said to Bagasse was in the confidence of familiar friendship, and the proof is, that Bagasse himself never spread it abroad—only that sneak of a boy.”
“Familiar friendship with Bagasse!” exclaimed Wentworth, amazed. “I did not imagine you would be so intimate with the old fellow.”
“And why not?” demanded Witherlee, with an air of noble disdain. “A gallant old soldier of the Empire—a brave old Frenchman, who wears the cross of the Legion! Do you think I’m such a snob as to shun his friendship because he’s poor and plebeian, and all that? Indeed, no! Bagasse and I,” he added, lying desperately, “are on very intimate terms, and I therefore felt justified in talking freely to him—which I wouldn’t have done if I had noticed the presence of that reptile of a boy.”
“Well,” said Wentworth, beginning to despair, “but that does not excuse your making fun of my dress, or of”—
“It’s not true,” interrupted Witherlee. “I simply said, jestingly, that you looked bizarre with your long curls and your Rubens hat, and so you do. But it was harmless joking enough, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think, at anyrate, it was harmless joking for you to jeer at Harrington’s coat, and say he looked like a ragpicker,” remarked Wentworth.