“I should think so, you blood-thirsty old rapier!” bawled Wentworth. “And you,” he continued, turning upon Harrington, “you were in earnest, too, I verily believe, and bent upon taking your fencing-master’s life. A nice pair, both of you, for a peaceable young man like me to meet in a dark alley going home late.” Harrington, who was leaning against the wall, getting his wind, as the saying goes, laughed without replying. His usual pallor had given place to a faint pink, and his broad winged nostrils were lifting with his deep breaths under his lighted eyes and white forehead, on which the brown locks lay damp. Wentworth thought he had never seen him look more princely. “But no,” Wentworth rattled on, “I don’t believe it of you, Harrington. For you’re what Kingsley calls a muscular Christian. As for Bagasse, he’s a muscular pagan, who lives on raw meat, gunpowder and brandy, and there’s nothing too bad for me to believe of him. Is there, Bagasse?” He patted the old man on the shoulder as he said it, looking smilingly in his face. Bagasse gazed with grotesque fondness at the handsome and gallant countenance, as on that of a privileged pet, and continued to mop his glowing visage. “What’s the time, Richard?” asked Harrington, beginning to dress himself. “Quarter of ten by all that’s good!” exclaimed the other, looking at his watch. “Time for me to be at the studio, and you at the books. But I won’t say that, for upon my word, Harrington, you study too hard. The Pierian spring will be the death of you, young man.” “O, no,” replied Harrington, laughing gaily. “I’m in good health. The daily bout with the foils or broadswords balances the hours at the books.” “Nevertheless you look rather Hamletish in your pallor,” returned Wentworth. “Though to be sure the pale prince was a special good hand at the rapier, in which, as in other respects, you resemble him. ‘The scholar, soldier, courtier’s eye, tongue, sword—the expectancy and rose of the fair State’ of Massachusetts—that’s you, Harrington.” “Seems to me, Richard, the quotation bung and the head of the soft-soap barrel are both out together this morning,” bantered Harrington. “‘I paint you in character,’” returned the mercurial Wentworth, with another Shaksperean reminiscence. “Being a member of the Boston Mutual Admiration Society, and this being Anniversary week, soft-soap is perfectly in order. Therefore, I affirm that you are of the Hamlet order plus Crichton, plus Raleigh, Sidney, Hatton, Blount, Southampton”— “Shakspeare and Verulam,” jeered Harrington.