ndent.

But Malcourt let him tell the news in his own way; and he did, imparting
it in bits with naive enjoyment, apparently utterly unconscious that he
was doing exactly what his superintendent had told him to do.

"You _are_ a diplomat, aren't you?" said Malcourt with a weary smile.

"A little, a little," admitted Portlaw modestly. "I merely mentioned
these things--" He waved his hand to check any possible eulogy of
himself from Malcourt. "I'll merely say this: that when I make up my
mind to settle anything--" He waved his hand again, condescendingly.

"That man," thought Malcourt, "will be done for in a year. Any woman
could have had him; the deuce of it was to find one who'd take him. I
think she's found."

And looking up blandly:

"Porty, old fellow, you're really rather past the marrying age--"

"I'll do what I please!" shouted Portlaw, exasperated.

Malcourt had two ways of making Portlaw do a thing; one was to tell him
not to, the other the reverse. He always ended by doing it anyway; but
the quicker result was obtained by the first method.

So Malcourt went to New York next morning convinced that Portlaw's
bachelor days were numbered; aware, also, that as soon as Mrs. Ascott
took the helm his own tenure of office would promptly expire. He wished
it to expire, easily, agreeably, naturally; and that is why he had
chosen to shove Portlaw in the general direction of the hymeneal altar.

He did not care very much for Portlaw--scarcely enough to avoid hurting
his feelings by abandoning him. But now he had arranged it so that to
all appearances the abandoning would be done by Portlaw, inspired by the
stronger mind of Mrs. Ascott. It had been easy and rather amusing to
arrange; it saved wordy and endless disputes with Portlaw; it would give
him a longed-for release from an occupation he had come to hate.

Malcourt was tired. He wanted a year of freedom from dependence,
surcease of responsibility--a year to roam where he wished, foregather
with whom he pleased, haunt the places congenial to him, come and go
unhampered; a year of it--only one year. What remained for him to do
after the year had expired he thought he understood; yes, he was
practically certain--had always been.

But first must come that wonderful year he had planned--or, if he tired
of the pleasure sooner, then, as the caprice stirred him, he would do
what he had planned to do ever since his father died. The details only
remained to be settle