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Updated: June 20, 2025
He had heard peasant-proprietors described as a pig-headed lot; had heard young Mont call his father a pig-headed Morning Poster disrespectful young devil. Well, there were worse things than being pig-headed or reading The Morning Post. There was Profond and his tribe, and all these Labour chaps, and loud-mouthed politicians, and "wild, wild women"! A lot of worse things!
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' know.
"You think so?" said Fleur shortly. "Worries," repeated Monsieur Profond, burring the r's. Fleur spun round. "Shall I tell you," she said, "what would give him pleasure?" But the words: "To hear that you had cleared out" died at the expression on his face. All his fine white teeth were showing. "I was hearin' at the Club to-day, about his old trouble." "What do you mean?"
Forsyde." However suspiciously regarded, he still frequented Winifred's evergreen little house in Green Street, with a good-natured obtuseness which no one mistook for naivete; a word hardly applicable to Monsieur Prosper Profond.
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 Monsieur Profond; "she has a nice face. I admire nice women."
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.
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.
With these soothing words, Winifred patted her niece's shoulder; thought: 'She's a nice, plump little thing! and went back to Prosper Profond, who, in spite of his indiscretion, was very "amusing" this evening. For some minutes after her aunt had gone Fleur remained under influence of bromide material and spiritual. But then reality came back.
Even two days ago light-hearted, before Prosper Profond told her. Now she felt tangled in a web-of passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and hate. At this dark moment of discouragement there seemed, even to her hold-fast nature, no way out. How deal with it how sway and bend things to her will, and get her heart's desire?
Why, you haven't properly come out yet! That boy's a child!" "What boy? I've only got a headache. But I can't stand that man to-night." "Well, well," said Winifred, "go and lie down. I'll send you some bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business had he to gossip? Though I must say I think it's much better you should know." Fleur smiled. "Yes," she said, and slipped from the room.
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