Other matters talked of, and the business conference ended, they were sitting together in the library, when Wentworth arrived, handsome as usual, and full of gay greetings. Presently Emily came in from a shopping excursion, and sat with them. “And why is Raffaello out of his studio this morning?” she said, in a gay tone, to Wentworth. “Well,” he returned, “fact is, I couldn’t paint for thinking of our recent blind-man’s buff game. Now, look here, friends, let’s have a grand confession. Here we are together, and what I want to know is this: How is it that we four people, of tolerably good wits, contrived in our love affairs to be so mistaken in regard to each other? Grant Witherlee’s share in the matter, and our own duplicity—that is, yours and mine, Emily dear—but after all, is it not singular that we didn’t see through it?” They sat pensively smiling, with their eyes bent upon the floor, while he, smiling also, with his brilliant teeth displayed, looked at them. “Just think,” he continued. “Just think of the slightness of the evidence which set every Jack of us against his true Jill, and every Jill against her true Jack. Such evidence wouldn’t have misled us if any other matter but love was involved. How is this? Now, Emily, perhaps it’s not wonderful that you should have thought that I loved Muriel, for who wouldn’t love her? but how could you for a moment imagine that she—so manifestly my superior every way, so evidently made for a nobler man than I am—could possibly love me?” “I don’t know,” naively replied Emily, while Muriel and Harrington, coloring at the compliment Wentworth so frankly paid them, laughed amusedly. “It was very foolish in me, I’m sure, and it seems like a strange dream.” “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.”