The Firing Line | Page 7

Louis. You know the family, I believe, don't you?"
Malcourt gazed placidly at him. "Very well indeed," he replied
deliberately. "They're a, good, domestic, mother-pin-a-rose-on-me sort

of family.... I'm a sort of distant cousin--run of the house and privilege
of kissing the girls--not now, but once. I'm going to stay there when we
get back from Miami."
"You didn't tell me that?" observed Hamil, surprised.
"No," said Malcourt carelessly, "I didn't know it myself. Just made up
my mind to do it. Saves hotel expenses. Well--your cockle-shell is
waiting. Give my regards to the family--particularly to Shiela." He
looked curiously at Hamil; "particularly to Shiela," he repeated; but
Hamil missed the expression of his eyes in the dusk.
"Are you really going to throw us over like this?" demanded Portlaw as
the young men turned back together across the deck.
"Got to do it," said Hamil cheerfully, offering his hand in adieu.
"Don't plead necessity," insisted Portlaw. "You've just landed old man
Cardross, and you've got the Richmond parks, and you're going to sting
me for more than I'm worth. Why on earth do you cut and run this
way?"
"No man in his proper senses really knows why he does anything.
Seriously, Portlaw, my party is ended--"
"Destiny gave Ulysses a proud party that lasted ten years; wasn't it ten,
Malcourt?" demanded Portlaw. "Stay with us, son; you've nine years
and eleven months of being a naughty boy coming to you--including a
few Circes and grand slams--"
"He's met his Circe," cut in Malcourt, leaning languidly over the rail;
"she's wearing a scarlet handkerchief this season--"
Portlaw, laughing fatly, nodded. "Louis discovered your Circe through
the glasses climbing into your boat--"
"What a busy little beast you are, Malcourt," observed Hamil, annoyed,
glancing down at the small boat alongside.

"'Beast' is good! You mean the mere sight of her transformed Louis
into the classic shote," added Portlaw, laughing louder as Hamil, still
smiling through his annoyance, went over the side. And a moment later
the gig shot away into the star-set darkness.
From the bridge Wayward wearily watched it through his night glasses;
Malcourt, slim and graceful, sat on the rail and looked out into the
Southern dusk, an unlighted cigarette between his lips.
"That kills our four at Bridge," grumbled Portlaw, leaning heavily
beside him. "We'll have to play Klondike and Preference now, or call in
the ship's cat.... Hello, is that you, Jim?" as Wayward came aft, limping
a trifle as he did at certain times.
"That girl had a good figure--through the glasses. I couldn't make out
her face; it was probably the limit; combinations are rare," mused
Malcourt. "And then--the fog came! It was like one of those low-down
classical tricks of Jupiter when caught philandering."
Portlaw laughed till his bulky body shook. "The Olympian fog was
wasted," he said; "John Garret Hamil 3d still preserves his nursery
illusions."
"He's lucky," remarked Wayward, staring into the gloom.
"But not fortunate," added Malcourt; "there's a difference between luck
and fortune. Read the French classics."
Wayward growled; Malcourt, who always took a malicious amusement
in stirring him up, grinned at him sideways.
"No man is fit for decent society until he's lost all his illusions," he said,
"particularly concerning women."
"Some of us have been fools enough to lose our illusions," retorted
Wayward sharply, "but you never had any, Malcourt; and that's no
compliment from me to you."

Portlaw chuckled. "We never lose illusions; we mislay 'em," he
suggested; "and then we are pretty careful to mislay only that particular
illusion which inconveniences us." He jerked his heavy head in
Malcourt's direction. "Nobody clings more frantically to illusions than
your unbaked cynic; Louis, you're not nearly such a devil of a fellow as
you imagine you are."
Malcourt smiled easily and looked out over the waves.
"Cynicism is old-fashioned," he said; "dogma is up to date. Credo! I
believe in a personal devil, virtuous maidens in bowers, and rosewood
furniture. As for illusions I cherish as many as you do!" He turned with
subtle impudence to Wayward. "And the world is littered with the
shattered fragments."
"It's littered with pups, too," observed Wayward, turning on his heel.
And he walked away, limping, his white mess jacket a pale spot in the
gloom.
Malcourt looked after him; an edge of teeth glimmering beneath his full
upper lip.
"It might be more logical if he'd cut out his alcohol before he starts in
as a gouty marine missionary," he observed. "Last night he sat there
looking like a superannuated cavalry colonel in spectacles, neuritis
twitching his entire left side, unable to light his own cigar; and there he
sat and rambled on and on about innate purity and American
womanhood."
He turned abruptly as a steward stepped up bearing a decanter and