"We went this afternoon to see Jack's horse," Miss Malines said to the Marquis. Whatever she said, no matter how general, she said to him--others might gather what they could. "Bon Jour's a beauty--a dear, and as fit as possible. Oh, she's in great form! Jack's crazy about her, and so is the jockey. I know Bon Jour will win! I'm going to put twenty-five francs on her to-morrow." Mary Falconer smiled radiantly. "And you, Jimmy," she took for granted, "are of course betting on the favorite?" "If you mean Grimace--" his tone was indifferent--"no, I shall back your husband's horse." "_Jimmy_!" Her tone changed, and her expression as well. De Presle-Vaulx saw it, and he knew what women's voices can mean. He was a Frenchman, and he understood what a slow, delicious flush, a darkening of the eyes, a sharp note in the voice can signify of feeling--as well as of gratitude, surprise and a little scorn. There was all this in Mary Falconer's exclamation and her face. "And Maurice!" Molly said, "of course, you're doing the same?" The Marquis met his fiancée's clear eyes, her girlish enthusiasm and her confidence. He bit his lip, shrugged, hesitated, looked at Bulstrode, at Molly, and laughed. The presence of the others and the custom of his country made it only a pretty courtesy--he lifted Molly's hand to his lips. "Of course--_chère Mademoiselle_, I am backing Bon Jour with all my heart, _cela va sans dire_!" Miss Malines regarded her friend with a pretty grimace and a smile. As they walked along together all four, Bulstrode said to himself: "He's a sport, a true sport--that's five thousand francs to the bad. He was game, however, he's a good sport and, better yet, he's a true lover!" Whether or not Mary Falconer really had an exalted idea of the merits of Bon Jour, or whether she thoroughly understood the situation, how was her friend to know? Falconer adored the horse, and the lady showed in the matter, as in everything else, a fine loyalty to her husband, which was undoubtedly one of the reasons why--but this is going too deeply into the domain of Bulstrode's feelings, which, since he keeps them honorably sealed, it is unworthy to surprise even in the interest of psychology. Bulstrode saw that his friend was pleased: her color, her mounting spirits at dinner, showed it. She spoke with interest of the races, and with confidence greater than she had hitherto evinced in the fortunes of her husband's racer--indeed she talked horse to Molly's edification, her husband's delight, and Bulstrode's admiration. All this--the sense that the party was, so to speak, with him--put Jack Falconer in the best of spirits, and the unruffled course of the dinner, and, above all, the humor of the elder of the two ladies, quite repaid Jimmy Bulstrode for the sure loss of his stakes.