Malcourt was now on maliciously humourous terms with himself; he began to speak impulsively, affectionately, with all the appearance of a garrulous younger brother impatient to unbosom himself to his family; and he talked and talked, confidingly, guilelessly, voluminously, yet managed to say absolutely nothing. And, strain their ears as they might, the Tressilvains in their perplexity and increasing impatience could make out nothing of all this voluntary information—understand nothing—pick out not one single fact to satisfy their desperately hungry curiosity.
There was no use interrupting him with questions; he answered them with others; he whispered ambiguities in a manner most portentous; hinted at bewildering paradoxes with an air; nodded mysterious nothings, and finally left them gaping at him, exasperated, unable to make any sense out of what most astonishingly resembled a candid revelation of the hopes, fears, ambitions, and worldly circumstances of Louis Malcourt.
“Good-night,” he said, lingering at the door to look upon and enjoy the fruit of his perversity and malice. “When I start on that journey I mentioned to you I’ll leave something for you and Herby—merely to show you how much I think of my own people—a little gift—a trifle! No—no!”—lifting his hand with smiling depreciation as Tressilvain began to thank him. “One must look out for one’s own family. It’s natural—only natural to make some provision. Good-night, Helen! Good-night, Herby. Portlaw and I will take you on at Bridge if it rains to-morrow. It will be a privilege for us to—ah—watch your game—closely. Good-night!”
And closed the door.
“What the devil does he mean?” demanded Tressilvain, peering sideways at his wife.
“I don’t exactly know,” she said thoughtfully, sorting the cards. She added: “If we play to-morrow you stick to signals; do you understand? And keep your ring and your fingers off the cards until I can make up my mind about my brother. You’re a fool to drink American whisky the way you did yesterday. Mr. Portlaw noticed the roughness on the aces; you pricked them too deep. You’d better keep your wits about you, I can tell you. I’m a Yankee myself.”
“Right—O! But I say, Helen, I’m damned if I make out that brother of yours. Doesn’t he live in the same house as his wife?”
Lady Tressilvain sat listening to the uproar from the dogs as Malcourt left the garden. But this time the outbreak was only a noisy welcome; and Malcourt, on excellent terms with himself, patted every sleek, wet head thrust up for caresses and walked gaily on through the driving rain.
The rain continued the following day. Piloted by Malcourt, the Tressilvains, thickly shod and water-proofed, tramped about with rod and creel and returned for luncheon where their blunt criticisms on the fishing aroused Portlaw’s implacable resentment. For they sneered at the trout, calling them “char,” patronised the rather scanty pheasantry, commented on the kennels, stables, and gardens in a manner that brought the red into Portlaw’s face and left him silent while luncheon lasted.