"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."