"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