y."

"No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur--one-forty."

Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new country
on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at every
hole.

"That's a young woman who knows her way about," he said. "I say, has it
struck you?"

"Yes," said Holly.

"Uncle Soames and your Dad--bit awkward, isn't it?"

"She won't know, and he won't know, and nothing must be said, of course.
It's only for five days, Val."

"Stable secret! Righto!" If Holly thought it safe, it was. Glancing
slyly round at him, she said: "Did you notice how beautifully she asked
herself?"

"No!"

"Well, she did. What do you think of her, Val?"

"Pretty and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got her
monkey up, I should say."

"I'm wondering," Holly murmured, "whether she is the modern young woman.
One feels at sea coming home into all this."

"You? You get the hang of things so quick."

Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket.

"You keep one in the know," said Val encouraged. "What do you think of
that Belgian fellow, Profond?"

"I think he's rather 'a good devil.'"

Val grinned.

"He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. In fact, our
family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying a
Frenchwoman, and your Dad marrying Soames's first. Our grandfathers
would have had fits!"

"So would anybody's, my dear."

"This car," Val said suddenly, "wants rousing; she doesn't get her hind
legs under her uphill. I shall have to give her her head on the slope if
I'm to catch that train."

There was that about horses which had prevented him from ever really
sympathising with a car, and the running of the Ford under his guidance
compared with its running under that of Holly was always noticeable. He
caught the train.

"Take care going home; she'll throw you down if she can. Good-bye,
darling."

"Good-bye," called Holly, and kissed her hand.

In the train, after quarter of an hour's indecision between thoughts of
Holly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day, and his dim memory
of Newmarket, Val plunged into the recesses of a small square book, all
names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes about the make and shape of
horses. The Forsyte in him was bent on the acquisition of a certain
strain of blood, and he was subduing resolutely as yet the Dartie
hankering for a Nutter. On getting back to England, after the p