ling 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.

'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