“Mr. Val Dartie?  How’s Mrs. Val Dartie?  She’s well, I hope.”  And he saw beside him the Belgian he had met at his sister Imogen’s.

“Prosper Profond—­I met you at lunch,” said the voice.

“How are you?” murmured Val.

“I’m very well,” replied Monsieur Profond, smiling with a certain inimitable slowness.  “A good devil,” Holly had called him.  Well!  He looked a little like a devil, with his dark, clipped, pointed beard; a sleepy one though, and good-humoured, with fine eyes, unexpectedly intelligent.

“Here’s a gentleman wants to know you—­cousin of yours—­Mr. George Forsyde.”

Val saw a large form, and a face clean-shaven, bull-like, a little lowering, with sardonic humour bubbling behind a full grey eye; he remembered it dimly from old days when he would dine with his father at the Iseeum Club.

“I used to go racing with your father,” George was saying:  “How’s the stud?  Like to buy one of my screws?”

Val grinned, to hide the sudden feeling that the bottom had fallen out of breeding.  They believed in nothing over here, not even in horses.  George Forsyte, Prosper Profond!  The devil himself was not more disillusioned than those two.

“Didn’t know you were a racing man,” he said to Monsieur Profond.

“I’m not.  I don’t care for it.  I’m a yachtin’ man.  I don’t care for yachtin’ either, but I like to see my friends.  I’ve got some lunch, Mr. Val Dartie, just a small lunch, if you’d like to ’ave some; not much—­just a small one—­in my car.”

“Thanks,” said Val; “very good of you.  I’ll come along in about quarter of an hour.”

“Over there.  Mr. Forsyde’s comin’,” and Monsieur Profond “poinded” with a yellow-gloved finger; “small car, with a small lunch”; he moved on, groomed, sleepy, and remote, George Forsyte following, neat, huge, and with his jesting air.

Val remained gazing at the Mayfly filly.  George Forsyte, of course, was an old chap, but this Profond might be about his own age; Val felt extremely young, as if the Mayfly filly were a toy at which those two had laughed.  The animal had lost reality.

“That ‘small’ mare”—­he seemed to hear the voice of Monsieur Profond —­“what do you see in her?—­we must all die!”

And George Forsyte, crony of his father, racing still!  The Mayfly strain—­was it any better than any other?  He might just as well have a flutter with his money instead.

“No, by gum!” he muttered suddenly, “if it’s no good breeding horses, it’s no good doing anything.  What did I come for?  I’ll buy her.”

He stood back and watched the ebb of the paddock visitors toward the stand.  Natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, Jews, trainers looking as if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their lives; tall, flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; young men with an air as if trying to take it seriously—­two or three of them with only one arm.