‘Life over here’s a game!’ thought Val.  ’Muffin bell rings, horses run, money changes hands; ring again, run again, money changes back.’

But, alarmed at his own philosophy, he went to the paddock gate to watch the Mayfly filly canter down.  She moved well; and he made his way over to the “small” car.  The “small” lunch was the sort a man dreams of but seldom gets; and when it was concluded Monsieur Profond walked back with him to the paddock.

“Your wife’s a nice woman,” was his surprising remark.

“Nicest woman I know,” returned Val dryly.

“Yes,” said Monsieur Profond; “she has a nice face.  I admire nice women.”

Val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in the heavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment.

“Any time you like to come on my yacht, I’ll give her a small cruise.”

“Thanks,” said Val, in arms again, “she hates the sea.”

“So do I,” said Monsieur Profond.

“Then why do you yacht?”

The Belgian’s eyes smiled.  “Oh!  I don’t know.  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 grand-father 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-was 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.”