"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: