“What’s the matter, Richard?” he asked, kindly.
“O nothing, nothing!” fretfully replied the vexed Wentworth, taking off his Rubens hat, dashing back the thick curls from his handsome, sloping forehead with a hasty hand, and passionately slapping on the hat again.
“I am very sorry, very. Harrington is really very aggravating sometimes,” ventured the kind Fernando.
At any other time Wentworth would have resented this insidious speech, as a slander upon the gentle Harrington. But now—
“He’s the most aggravating fellow I ever knew in my life,” was his hot answer.
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” returned Fernando, with mild moderation. “By no means. Harrington has fine qualities, you know. You should remember that the best of us are apt to be a little forgetful when our own personal interests, or wishes, or affections are involved.”
Blandly and kindly said, with just a shade of hesitating emphasis on “personal” and “affections”—just a shade.
“What do you mean by that, Fernando?” asked Wentworth, almost choking, and catching at the insidious hint, which the good Fernando had made almost impalpable by throwing it out with the easy manner of one uttering a mere generality.
“Mean?” he asked, with a delicate shade of bewilderment, “why nothing particular, that I know of.”