nt on me. You
know his story; everybody does. I like him and sponge on him. We
irritate each other; I'm a beast to resent his sharpness. But he's not
right when he says I never had any illusions.... I had--and have.... I
do beastly things, too.... Some men will do anything to crush out the
last quiver of pride in them.... And the worst is that, mangled, torn,
mine still palpitates--like one of your wretched, bloody quail gaping on
its back! By God! At least, I couldn't do _that_!--_Kill_ for
pleasure!--as better men than I do. And better women, too!... What am I
talking about? I've done worse than that on impulse--meaning well, like
other fools."

Malcourt's face had become drawn, sallow, almost sneering; but in the
slow gaze he turned on Hamil was that blank hopelessness which no man
can encounter and remember unmoved.

"Malcourt," he said, "you're morbid. Men like you; women like you--So do
I--now--"

"It's too late. I needed that sort of thing when I was younger. Kindness
arouses my suspicion now. Toleration is what it really is. I have no
money, no social position here--or abroad; only a thoroughly discredited
name in two hemispheres. It took several generations for the Malcourts
to go to the devil; but I fancy we'll all arrive on time. What a
reunion! I hate the idea of family parties, even in hell."

He straightened up gracefully and lighted his cigarette; then the easy
smile twitched his dry lips again and he nodded mockingly at Hamil:

"Count on my friendship, Hamil; it's so valuable. It has already quite
ruined one person's life, and will no doubt damage others before I
flicker out."

"What do you mean, Malcourt?"

"What I say, old fellow. With the best intentions toward self-sacrifice
I usually do irreparable damage to the objects of my regard. Beware my
friendship, Hamil. There's no luck in it or me.... But I do like you."

He laughed and sauntered off into the house as Hamil's horse was brought
around; and Hamil, traversing the terrace, mounted under a running fire
of badinage from Shiela and Cecile who had just come from the
tennis-courts to attempt some hated embroidery for the charity fair then
impending.

So he rode away to his duties in the forest, leaving a placid
sewing-circle on the terrace. From which circle, presently, Shiela
silently detached herself, arms encumbered with her writing materials
and silks. Strolling aimlessly along the balustrade for a while,
watching the bees scrambling