d.

For Malcourt, with all the contradictions in his character, all his
cynicism, effrontery, ruthlessness, preferred to do things in a manner
calculated to spare the prejudices of others; and if there was a way to
accomplish a thing without hurting people, he usually took the trouble
to do it in that way. If not, he did it anyway.

And now, at last, he saw before him the beginning of that curious year
for which he had so long waited; and, concerning the closing details of
which, he had pondered so often with his dark, handsome head lowered and
slightly turned, listening, always listening.

But nothing of this had he spoken of to his wife. It was not necessary.
He had a year in which to live in a certain manner and do a certain
thing; and it was going to amuse him to do it in a way which would harm
nobody.

The year promised to be an interesting one, to judge from all signs. For
one item his sister, Lady Tressilvain, was impending from Paris--also
his brother-in-law--complicating the humour of the visitation.
Malcourt's marriage to an heiress was the perfectly obvious incentive
of the visit. And when they wrote that they were coming to New York, it
amused Malcourt exceedingly to invite them to Luckless Lake. But he said
nothing about it to Portlaw or his wife.

Then, for another thing, the regeneration and development, ethically and
artistically, of Dolly Wilming amused him. He wanted to be near enough
to watch it--without, however, any real faith in its continuation.

And, also, there was Miss Suydam. Her development would not be quite as
agreeable to witness; process of disillusioning her, little by little,
until he had undermined himself sufficiently to make the final break
with her very easy--for her. Of course it interested him; all intrigue
did where skill was required with women.

And, last of all, yet of supreme importance, he desired leisure,
undisturbed, to study his own cumulative development, to humorously
thwart it, or misunderstand it, or slyly aid it now and then--always
aware of and attentive to that extraneous something which held him so
motionless, at moments, listening attentively as though to a command.

For, from that morning four years ago when, crushed with fatigue, he
strove to keep his vigil beside his father who, toward daybreak, had
been feigning sleep--from that dreadful dawn when, waking with the crash
of the shot in his ears, his blinded gaze beheld the passing of a
soul--he unders