use an anaesthetic was the equal of any
graduate physician--"

"Louis! What do you mean?"

But his head was bent again in that curious attitude of listening; and
after a moment he made an almost imperceptible gesture of acquiescence,
and turned to her with the old, easy, half-impudent, half-challenging
air.

"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 th