"Tressilvain and I did."
"Were you badly stung, dear friend?"
Portlaw muttered.
Malcourt lifted his expressive eyebrows.
"Why didn't you try my talented relative again to-night?"
"Mrs. Malcourt had enough," said Portlaw briefly; then mumbled something injuriously unintelligible.
"I think I'll go over to the house and see if my gifted brother-in-law has retired," said Malcourt, adding carelessly, "I suppose Mrs. Malcourt is asleep."
"It wouldn't surprise me," replied Portlaw. And Malcourt was free to interpret the remark as he chose.
He went away thoughtfully, crossing the lawn in the rainy darkness, and came to the garden where his own dogs barked at him—a small thing to depress a man, but it did; and it was safer for the dogs, perhaps, that they sniffed recognition before they came too near with their growls and barking. But he opened the gate, disdaining to speak to them, and when they knew him, it was a pack of very humble, wet, and penitent hounds that came wagging up alongside. He let them wag unnoticed.
Lights burned in his house, one in Shiela's apartments, several in the west wing where the Tressilvains were housed. A servant, locking up for the night, came across the dripping veranda to admit him; and he went upstairs and knocked at his wife's door.