At the gangway the younger man bade adieu to Malcourt and Portlaw, laughing as the latter indignantly requested to know why Hamil wasted his time attending to business.

Malcourt drew him aside: 

“So you’re going to rig up a big park and snake preserve for Neville Cardross?”

“I’m going to try, 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.