"The rest of them" watched the young couple with mingled emotions: Mary Falconer with all the romance in her, and in spite of unusual cool reasonableness she had a feminine share--Jimmy with the sympathy of a kindly nature, a certain sting of jealousy at the decidedly perfect completeness of young love, and with a singularly wide-awake practical common sense for an impulsive gentleman whose pleasure in life is to pour into people's hands the things they most long for and cannot without him ever hope to enjoy! Bulstrode, although owning his share of horse-flesh and a proper number of automobiles and keeping, for the best part of the time, a yacht out of commission, was a sport only in a certain sense of the word. The people who liked him best and who were themselves able to judge, said he was a "dead game sport," but Jimmy smiled at this and knew that the human element interested him in life above all, and that he only cared for amusements as they helped others to enjoy. He was backing Falconer's horse, although he felt certain the winnings would go to the Rothschild's gelding. On the afternoon, however, when De Presle-Vaulx came up to him in the Casino and said: "On what are you going to put your money, Monsieur?" Bulstrode looked at him thoughtfully. He had stood by the young man the night before at baccarat and seen him lose enough to keep a little family of Trouville fisherfolk for a year. "Are you going to play the races, Marquis?" "But naturally!" ... De Presle-Vaulx had an attractive frankness, and his smile was--Bulstrode understood what a girl would think about it! "... But of course! One doesn't come to Trouville in _la grande semaine_ not to play!" He put his hand cordially on Bulstrode's arm. "Entre nous," he said, "I don't believe Falconer's horse has a chance against Rothschild's Grimace. And you?" "Oh, I shall back Jack Falconer's mare," the older man replied. The Marquis played with his moustache. "She doesn't stand a show." Bulstrode was walking slowly down the grand staircase by his companion's side. "And you will back Grimace?" He ignored the young man's prognostication. De Presle-Vaulx said ingenuously: "_I_? Oh, seriously, I'm not betting. I lost at baccarat last night, and I haven't a sou for the race." He looked boyish and regretful. The American put his hand in his pocket and took out his portefeuille. "Let me," he suggested pleasantly, "be your banker." The light dry rustle of French bank-notes came agreeably from between his fingers. The young man hesitated, then put out his hand. "A thousand thanks, Monsieur, you are too good--I _will_ back Grimace, and after the race----" Jimmy handed him the notes to choose from. At the stair foot stood Molly and Mrs. Falconer.