Portlaw was nodding drowsily over his cigar; the April sunshine streamed into the room through every leaded pane, inlaying the floor with glowing diamonds; dogs barked from the distant kennels; cocks were crowing from the farm. Outside the window he saw how the lilac's dully varnished buds had swollen and where the prophecy of snow-drop and crocus under the buckthorn hedge might be fulfilled on the morrow. Already over the green-brown, soaking grass one or two pioneer grackle were walking busily about; and somewhere in a near tree the first robin chirked and chirped and fussed in its loud and familiar fashion, only partly pleased to find himself in the gray thaw of the scarcely comfortable North once more. Portlaw looked up dully: "Those robins come up here and fatten on our fruit, and a fool law forbids us to shoot 'em. Robin pie," he added, "is not to be despised, but a sentimental legislature is the limit.... Sentiment always did bore me.... How do you feel after your luncheon?" "All right," said Hamil, smiling. "I'd like to start out as soon as Malcourt comes back." "Oh, don't begin that sort of thing the moment you get here!" protested Portlaw. "My heavens, man! there's no hurry. Can't you smoke a cigar and play a card or two--" "You know I've other commissions--" "Oh, of course; but I hoped you'd have time to take it easy. I've looked forward to having you here--so has Malcourt; he thinks you're about right, you know. And he makes damn few friends among men--" The door opened and Malcourt entered slowly, almost noiselessly. There was not a vestige of colour in his face, nor of expression as he crossed the room for a match and relighted his cigarette. "Well?" inquired Portlaw, "did you get Cardross on the wire?" "Yes." Malcourt stood motionless, hands in his pockets, the cigarette smoke curling up blue in the sunshine. "I've got to go," he said. "What for?" demanded Portlaw, then sulkily begged pardon and pouted his dissatisfaction in silence. "When do you go, Malcourt?" asked Hamil, still wondering. "Now." He lifted his head but looked across at Portlaw. "I've telephoned the stable, and called up Pride's Fall to flag the five-thirty express," he said. Portlaw was growing madder and madder. "Would you mind telling me when you expect to be back?" he inquired ill-temperedly. "I don't know yet." "Don't know!" burst out Portlaw; "hell's bells!" Malcourt shook his head. Portlaw profanely requested information as to how the place was to be kept going. Malcourt was patient with him to the verge of indifference. "There's nothing to blow up about. Hastings is competent to manage things--" "That conceited pup!"