"Well, I'm going to take a vacation pretty soon--a sort of voyage, and a devilish long one, William. That's why I wanted to see her again." "You mean to tell me you are going away?" demanded the other indignantly. Malcourt laughed. "Oh, yes. I planned it long ago--one morning toward daybreak years ago.... A--a relative of mine started on the same voyage rather unexpectedly.... I've heard very often from him since; I'm curious to try it, too--when he makes up his mind to invite me--" "When are you starting?" interrupted Portlaw, disgusted. "Oh, not for a while, I think. I won't embarrass you; I'll leave everything in ship-shape--" "_Where_ are you going?--dammit!" Malcourt looked at him humorously, head on one side. "I am not perfectly sure, dear friend. I hate to know all about a thing before I do it. Otherwise there's no sporting interest in it." "You mean to tell me that you're going off a-gipsying without any definite plans?" "Gipsying?" he laughed. "Well, that may perhaps describe it. I don't know; I have no plans. That's the charm of it. When one grows tired, that is the restful part of it--to simply start, having no plans; just to leave, and drift away haphazard. One is always bound to arrive somewhere, William." He had been pacing backward and forward, the burning cigarette balanced between his fingers, turning his handsome head from time to time to answer Portlaw's ill-tempered questions. Now he halted, dark eyes roving about the room. They fell and lingered on a card-table where some empty glasses decorated the green baize top. "Bridge?" he queried. "Unfortunately," growled Portlaw. "Who?" "Mrs. Malcourt and I versus your--ah--talented family." "Mrs. Malcourt doesn't gamble." "Tressilvain and I did." "Were you badly stung, dear friend?" Portlaw muttered. Malcourt lifted his expressive eyebrows. "Why didn't you try my talented relative again to-night?" "Mrs. Malcourt had enough," said Portlaw briefly; then mumbled something injuriously unintelligible. "I think I'll go over to the house and see if my gifted brother-in-law has retired," said Malcourt, adding carelessly, "I suppose Mrs. Malcourt is asleep." "It wouldn't surprise me," replied Portlaw. And Malcourt was free to interpret the remark as he chose. He went away thoughtfully, crossing the lawn in the rainy darkness, and came to the garden where his own dogs barked at him--a small thing to depress a man, but it did; and it was safer for the dogs, perhaps, that they sniffed recognition before they came too near with their growls and barking. But he opened the gate, disdaining to speak to them, and when they knew him, it was a pack of very humble, wet, and penitent hounds that came wagging up alongside. He let them wag unnoticed.