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Updated: June 20, 2025
She could not get used to the idea. "Did Profond ever get off?" he said suddenly. "He got off," replied Winifred, "but where I don't know." Yes, there it was impossible to tell anything! Not that he wanted to know. Letters from Annette were coming from Dieppe, where she and her mother were staying. "You saw that fellow's death, I suppose?" "Yes," said Winifred. "I'm sorry for for his children.
Winifred thought that "rather nice," and added comfortably: "Well, Holly's sensible; she'll know how to deal with it. I shan't tell your uncle. It'll only bother him. It's a great comfort to have you back, my dear boy, now that I'm getting on." "Getting on! Why! you're as young as ever. That chap Profond, Mother, is he all right?" "Prosper Profond! Oh! the most amusing man I know."
Certain, that Annette was looking particularly handsome, and that Soames had sold him a Gauguin and then torn up the cheque, so that Monsieur Profond himself had said: "I didn't get that small picture I bought from Mr. Forsyde."
What his wife saw in the fellow he didn't know, unless it was that he could speak her language; and there passed in Soames what Monsieur Profond would have called a "small doubt" whether Annette was not too handsome to be walking with any one so "cosmopolitan."
As one looks on some American river, quiet and pleasant, knowing that an alligator perhaps is lying in the mud with his snout just raised and indistinguishable from a snag of wood so Soames looked on the river of his own existence, subconscious of Monsieur Profond, refusing to see more than the suspicion of his snout.
Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in the bay window. Turning into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw "that prowler" coming up. He took off his hat a glossy "bowler" such as she particularly detested. "Good evenin'! Miss Forsyde.
Subduing a natural irritation, he said: "Are you a judge of pictures?" "Well, I've got a few myself." "Any Post-Impressionists?" "Ye-es, I rather like them." "What do you think of this?" said Soames, pointing to the Gauguin. Monsieur Profond protruded his lower lip and short pointed beard. "Rather fine, I think," he said; "do you want to sell it?"
Heavy drops fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a tall stout man in the bay window. Turning into Green Street she heard her name called, and saw "that prowler" coming up. He took off his hat a glossy "bowler" such as she particularly detested: "Good-evenin'! Miss Forsyde.
He went up to bed; and in the mirror on his dressing-table met himself. He did not speak, nor did the image; but both looked as if they thought the more. Uncertain, whether the impression that Prosper Profond was dangerous should be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly filly; to the remark of Fleur's: "Isn't he a great cat?
And very soon he was thinking: 'Dash it! she's going beyond me! His limit six hundred 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."
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