Witherlee’s conscience smote him terribly, and he felt maddened at his meanness, as Harrington strode away. But he was fully committed to his course, and to own his fault was impossible with him. Wentworth, meanwhile, was standing apart with a gloomy face, listlessly watching the fencing. His fancy was still galloping furiously with him to the goal of the jealous lover, but it began to swerve from the track in spite of him, as he saw Harrington coming down the room. Harrington’s mere presence was a constant demand on every person for the best that was in them; and before the conquering sweetness of his smile, Wentworth’s jealous doubts and suspicions at once scattered and fled, and his nobler feelings rushed forward. The tears filled his bright eyes as Harrington came straight up to him and caught his hand. He tried to speak, but his lips faltered. “Richard, I ask your pardon,” said Harrington. “I am sorry to have annoyed you; but it was entirely unintentional. I want to have a talk with you, that we may understand each other better. Not now—another time. In the meantime, let us be friends.” Wentworth wrung his hand, wholly vanquished, and unable to say a word. “Come,” said Harrington, gaily, with the muscles in his cheeks wrinkling again, and his teeth gleaming in his beard, with a rich smile—“come, that was only a zephyr. Let’s go fence.” No more was said, and they went over to the fencing-ground, where Fisk was being punched and poked and interjected at and admonished by Monsieur Bagasse, to his utter bewilderment. In a few minutes, the master got through with him, and set him and Palmer to practise against each other. He then turned to Wentworth, who had taken off hat and coat, and was chattering like a mercurial magpie, with his handsome face enveloped in a mask. “Come, now, Missr Wentwort’,” said Bagasse. “You pink zat ozzer vilet if you can. _En garde._” Wentworth laughed, and, crossing blades, they fell to. The young artist fenced briskly and well, though somewhat rashly. Once he contrived to touch the fencing-master on the arm, for which lucky stroke he got paid with half a dozen in succession on his breast. “Thunder!” he exclaimed as he got the last, “what’s the use of fencing with you, Bagasse? Nobody can touch you, and you’re as light on your pins as though you were twenty.” The old man chuckled grimly, relapsing into his clumsiest and most ungainly attitude. “Light!” put in Witherlee. “I guess he is. His legs are made of caout-chouc, I should think, judging by the way he can kick.” “Oh, yes, I can keek,” returned Bagasse. “I haf my leg pretty su-ple.” He turned toward the post against which Witherlee was leaning, and laid his grimy finger on a notch a little above his own head. Witherlee stood aside, and every eye followed the fencing-master. Suddenly, rising on one foot, he dealt the notch a furious kick, amidst cries of “good” and “bravo.” Sure enough, the leg had flown up to the mark, like a leg of india-rubber.