“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.” But he smiled slightly and lifted his handsome eyebrows very slightly, and then lapsed into an expression of soft compassion. “Yes, I understand,” said Wentworth, walking away in passionate misery. What particular meaning the good Fernando’s vague words and mysterious looks expressed, nobody could have told. It was their especial beauty, perhaps, that they really expressed nothing definite at all, and were merely random spurs to the imagination of the listener, goading him on the path he happened to be pursuing. Wentworth’s path at that moment was the vague suspicion that Harrington was selfishly supplanting him in his relation to Emily. It was a path out of which he had turned several times, urged by his strong sense of Harrington’s perfect nobility, but he was now in it again, and with the talented Fernando’s last bunch of thorns insidiously tied to his galloping fancy, and stinging it on, he was going at a headlong pace for mad jealousy and outright hostility, and would soon be there. Witherlee, meanwhile, highly gratified at the success of his insinuations with Wentworth, was enjoying the young artist’s distress when he caught sight of Harrington standing at the upper end of the room, and looking at him. It was embarrassing, and he was about to avert his eyes, but at that instant Harrington beckoned to him. He hesitated, and then with considerable trepidation, for he did not know what was coming, he walked up the room. Harrington’s face was introverted and sad, and his eyes were fixed on vacancy. Witherlee felt glad that the broad gaze did not rest on his face, for he feared its inquest. “Fernando,” said Harrington, calmly and kindly, though with evident embarrassment, “I want to speak with you on a very delicate subject. You have known Miss Eastman and Miss Ames a long time—much longer than I have. You”— Harrington paused for a moment. Witherlee’s heart beat an alarmed tattoo, though his colorless face was perfectly impassible. “Richard is in a strange state lately,” resumed Harrington, smiling vaguely. “You must have noticed it, Fernando. Just now, he spoke to me in a manner which I do not understand. Something frets him. Have you any idea what it is?”