He bowed coldly and constrainedly to Muriel as he entered, though he was struck by her exceeding beauty as she glided forward with her natural affable smile and curtsey to greet him. But Wentworth was sick of all the world at that moment, and affecting not to see Muriel’s outstretched hand, he looked aside and reached her a chair. “What is it you wished to see me for, Muriel?” he said, half coldly, half carelessly, drawing up another chair for himself. “Richard?” Her voice carried a soft rebuke, though it was gentle and low. “Not glad to see me, your friend, your sister, Richard.” He kept his gaze fixed upon the floor, but his lip quivered, and the faded colors of the carpet suddenly swam. The next instant he felt her arms around him, and blind with tears, he let his forehead sink upon her shoulder. “Forgive me, Muriel,” he faltered, in a moment, lifting his face to hers, and wanly smiling through his tears. “Indeed I love you, but my heart is half broken, and I am weary of the world.” “Ah, Richard,” she said, with tender gaiety, “there is a fairy prince here who mends broken hearts, and makes the world-weary glad again.” Her arms fell from him, and as they fell, he caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Your magic is strong, dear fairy prince,” he said, with sad playfulness, “but there are spells no magic can unbind. Come—let us speak of other things.” “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.” Wentworth looked at her silently, with a strange feeling rising within him. “Confess, Richard,” she went on, “that you scented something deadly to your love after he had dropped a word over those violets!” “I understand you,” he replied, slowly, “he said something which prevented Emily from giving me the violets.” “And that wounded you sorely,” she remarked. “I confess it did,” he answered. “It was a very trifling thing, to be sure, but at that time it meant a great deal, and to be frank with you, Muriel, I was hurt. No matter,” he added, “there were other things for which he was not responsible, which hurt me far more. I cannot now be hurt again.”