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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!
During the War, of course, he had kept fit to kill Germans; now that it was over he either did not know, or shrank in delicacy from explanation of his moving principle. "But he's right," said Monsieur Profond unexpectedly, "there's nothin' left but keepin' fit." The saying, too deep for Sunday afternoon, would have passed unanswered, but for the mercurial nature of young Mont. "Good!" he cried.
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.
"Really," said Winifred suddenly; "it almost seems like Fate. Only that's so old-fashioned. Look! There are George and Eustace!" George Forsyte's lofty bulk had halted before them. "Hallo, Soames!" he said. "Just met Profond and your wife. You'll catch 'em if you put on steam. Did you ever go to see old Timothy?" Soames nodded, and the streams forced them apart.
George put out a well-kept hand. "Haven't seen you since the War," he said. "How's your wife?" "Thanks," said Soames coldly, "well enough." Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, and gloated from his eye. "That Belgian chap, Profond," he said, "is a member here now. He's a rum customer." "Quite!" muttered Soames. "What did you want to see me about?"
"Isn't he a great cat?" she whispered; and the sharp click of the billiard-balls rose, as if Jack Cardigan had capped the cat, the moon, caprice, and tragedy with: "In off the red!" Monsieur Profond had resumed his strolling, to a teasing little tune in his beard. What was it? Oh! yes, from "Rigoletto": "Donna e mobile." Just what he would think! She squeezed her father's arm.
"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."
She had been expected on Wednesday; had wired that it would be Friday; and again on Friday that it would be Sunday afternoon; and here were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and this fellow Profond, and everything flat as a pancake for the want of her. He stood before his Gauguin sorest point of his collection.
One of his friends dwells with emphasis on his "sens profond des nationalites, des langues, des villes" on his love for local characteristics, for everything deep-rooted in the past, and helping to sustain the present. He is convinced that no state can live and thrive without a certain number of national prejudices, without a priori beliefs and traditions.
"Oh, but Prosper," Winifred interjected comfortably, "the girls in the streets the girls who've been in munitions, the little flappers in the shops; their manners now really quite hit you in the eye." At the word "hit" Jack Cardigan stopped his disquisition; and in the silence Monsieur Profond said: "It was inside before, now it's outside; that's all." "But their morals!" cried Imogen.
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