ow. I've done everything; it's
the last thing I'm doin'."

"It must be d--d expensive. I should want more reason than that."

Monsieur Prosper Profond raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a heavy
lower lip.

"I'm an easy-goin' man," he said.

"Were you in the war?" asked Val.

"Ye-es. I've done that too. I was gassed; it was a small bit
unpleasant." He smiled with a deep and sleepy air of prosperity, as if
he had caught it from his name. Whether his saying "small" when he
ought to have said "little" was genuine mistake or affectation, Val
could not decide; the fellow was evidently capable of anything. Among
the ring of buyers round the Mayfly filly who had won her race,
Monsieur Profond said: "You goin' to bid?"

Val nodded. With this sleepy Satan at his elbow, he felt in need of
faith. Though placed above the ultimate blows of Providence by the
forethought of a grandfather who had tied him up a thousand a year to
which was added the thousand a year tied up for Holly by HER
grand-father, Val was not flush of capital that he could touch, having
spent most of what he had realised from his South African farm on his
establishment in Sussex. And very soon he was thinking: 'Dash it! she's
going beyond me!' His limit--six hundred--exceeded, he dropped out of
the bidding. The Mayfly filly passed under the hammer at seven hundred
and fifty guineas. He was turning away vexed when the slow voice of
Monsieur Profond said in his ear:

"Well, I've bought that small filly, but I don't want her; you take her
and give her to your wife."

Val looked at the fellow with renewed suspicion, but the good humour in
his eyes was such that he really could not take offence.

"I made a small lot of money in the war," began Monsieur Profond in
answer to that look. "I 'ad armament shares. I like to give it away.
I'm always makin' money. I want very small lot myself. I like my
friends to 'ave it."

"I'll buy her of you at the price you gave," said Val with sudden
resolution.

"No," said Monsieur Profond. "You take her. I don' want her."

"Hang it! One doesn't--"

"Why not?" smiled Monsieur Profond. "I'm a friend of your family."

"Seven hundred and fifty guineas is not a box of cigars," said Val
impatiently.

"All right; you keep her for me till I want her, and do what you like
with her."

"So long as she's yours," said Val, "I don't mind that." "That's all
right," murmured Monsieur Profond, and moved away.

Val watched; he mig