“I’m going to diet, too,” observed Portlaw, watching the effect of this astounding statement on his superintendent.  “My theory is that we all eat too much.”

“Don’t do anything Spartan,” said Malcourt warningly; “a man at your time of life—­”

“My—­what!  Confound it, Louis, I’m well this side of forty!”

“Yes, perhaps; but when a man reaches your age there is not much left for him but the happiness of overeating—­”

“What d’y’ mean?”

“Nothing; only as he’s out of the race with younger men as far as a pretty woman is concerned—­”

“Who’s out!” demanded Portlaw, red in the face.  “What sort of men do you suppose interest women?  Broilers?  I always thought your knowledge of women was superficial; now I know it.  And you don’t know everything about everything else, either—­about summonses and lawsuits, for example.”  And he cast an exultant look at his superintendent.

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.