"Where are you going?—dammit!"
Malcourt looked at him humorously, head on one side. "I am not perfectly sure, dear friend. I hate to know all about a thing before I do it. Otherwise there's no sporting interest in it."
"You mean to tell me that you're going off a-gipsying without any definite plans?"
"Gipsying?" he laughed. "Well, that may perhaps describe it. I don't know; I have no plans. That's the charm of it. When one grows tired, that is the restful part of it—to simply start, having no plans; just to leave, and drift away haphazard. One is always bound to arrive somewhere, William."
He had been pacing backward and forward, the burning cigarette balanced between his fingers, turning his handsome head from time to time to answer Portlaw's ill-tempered questions. Now he halted, dark eyes roving about the room. They fell and lingered on a card-table where some empty glasses decorated the green baize top.
"Bridge?" he queried.
"Unfortunately," growled Portlaw.
"Who?"
"Mrs. Malcourt and I versus your—ah—talented family."
"Mrs. Malcourt doesn't gamble."