Malcourt smiled easily and looked out over the waves.
"Cynicism is old-fashioned," he said; "dogma is up to date. Credo! I believe in a personal devil, virtuous maidens in bowers, and rosewood furniture. As for illusions I cherish as many as you do!" He turned with subtle impudence to Wayward. "And the world is littered with the shattered fragments."
"It's littered with pups, too," observed Wayward, turning on his heel. And he walked away, limping, his white mess jacket a pale spot in the gloom.
Malcourt looked after him; an edge of teeth glimmering beneath his full upper lip.
"It might be more logical if he'd cut out his alcohol before he starts in as a gouty marine missionary," he observed. "Last night he sat there looking like a superannuated cavalry colonel in spectacles, neuritis twitching his entire left side, unable to light his own cigar; and there he sat and rambled on and on about innate purity and American womanhood."
He turned abruptly as a steward stepped up bearing a decanter and tray of glasses.
Portlaw helped himself, grumbling under his breath that he meant to cut out this sort of thing and set Wayward an example.
Malcourt lifted his glass gaily:
"Our wives and sweethearts; may they never meet!"
They set back their empty glasses; Portlaw started to move away, still muttering about the folly of self-indulgence; but the other detained him.