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." "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.