“Gray has a butterfly in his collection which shows four distinct forms.  Once people thought these forms were distinct species; now they know they all are the same species of butterfly in various suits of disguise—­just as you might persuade yourself that unhappiness and happiness are radically different.  But some people find satisfaction in being unhappy, and some find it in being happy; and as it’s all only the gratification of that imperious egotism we call conscience, the specific form of all is simply ethical selfishness.”

He laughed unrestrainedly at his own will-o’-the-wisp philosophy, looking very handsome and care-free there where the noon sun slanted across the white arcade all thick with golden jasmine bloom.

And Shiela, too intelligent to mistake him, smiled a little at his gay perversity.

* * * * *

He met Portlaw, later, at the Beach Club for luncheon; and, as the latter looked particularly fat, warm, and worried, Malcourt’s perverse humour remained in the ascendant, and he tormented Portlaw until that badgered gentleman emitted a bellow of exasperation.

“What on earth’s the matter?” asked Malcourt in pretended astonishment.  “I thought I was being funny.”

“Funny!  Does a man want to be prodded with wit at his own expense when the market is getting funnier every hour—­at his expense?  Go and look at the tape if you want to know why I don’t enjoy either your wit or this accursed luncheon.”

“What’s happening, Portlaw?”

“I wish you’d tell me.”

“Muck-raking?”

“Partly, I suppose.”

“Administration?”

“People say so.  I don’t believe it.  There’s a rotten lot of gambling going on.  How do I know what’s the matter?”

“Perhaps there isn’t anything the matter, old fellow.”

“Well, there is.  I can sniff it ’way down here.  And I’m going home to walk about and listen and sniff some more.  Sag, sag, sag!—­that’s what the market has been doing for months.  Yet, if I sell it short, it rallies on me and I’m chased to cover.  I go long and the thing sags like the panties on that French count, yonder....  Who’s the blond girl with him?”

“Hope springs eternal in the human beast,” observed Malcourt.  “Hope is a bird, Porty, old chap—­”

“Hope is a squab,” growled Portlaw, swallowing vast quantities of claret, “all squashy and full of pin-feathers.  That’s what hope is.  It needs a thorough roasting, and it’s getting it.”

“Exquisite metaphor,” mused Malcourt, gazing affably at the rather blond girl who crumbled her bread and looked occasionally and blankly at him, occasionally and affectionately at the French count, her escort, who was consuming lobster with characteristic Gallic thoroughness and abandon.

“The world,” quoted Malcourt, “is so full of a number of things.  You’re one of ’em, Portlaw; I’m several....  Well, if you’re going North I’d better begin to get ready.”