“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 tray of glasses.

Portlaw helped himself, grumbling under his breath that he meant to cut out this sort of thing and set Wayward an example.

Malcourt lifted his glass gaily: 

“Our wives and sweethearts; may they never meet!”

They set back their empty glasses; Portlaw started to move away, still muttering about the folly of self-indulgence; but the other detained him.

“Wayward took it out of me in ‘Preference’ this morning while Garry was out courting.  I’d better liquidate to-night, hadn’t I, Billy?”