"Does she really think that I have faith in the horse?" he wondered---meeting her charming eyes over the glass of champagne she was drinking. They did not answer in text his question, but their glow and the light of content in them answered for him other questions which were perhaps of greater interest. She was not unhappy. All his life, since his acquaintance with her, it had been his aim, in so far as he could aid it, that she should not be unhappy. His idea of affection was that in all cases it should bring to the object--joy. In his own life these things which brought him, no matter how pleasant they might be, the after taste of regret and misery he strove with all his manliness to tear out: "and surely," he so argued, "if my presence in her life cause her for one moment anything but peace, it would be better that we had never looked into each other's eyes." There was nothing especially buoyant, in the attitude of the young Marquis! His inclination to feminine will had cost him--he was so familiar with the turf and the next day's programme to feel sure--five thousand francs, which he had not the means to pay. Later in the evening, very much later, indeed well on to one o'clock, Bulstrode, wandering through the baccarat rooms--for no other purpose, it would be said from his indifferent air, than to study types--saw Maurice de Presle-Vaulx just leaving the Casino. Bulstrode's air was as friendly and as naïve as though he had not a pretty clear idea of just how the tide of events was fluctuating toward misfortune in the case of this young nobleman. "What do you say," he suggested, "to getting something to drink or eat? What do you say to a piece of _perdreau_ and some champagne?" The Frenchman followed the older man, who in contrast to his pallor looked the picture of health and spirits. Bulstrode cheerily led him to a small table in the corner of the restaurant, where they sat opposite one another, and for a little time applied themselves in silence to the light supper served them. The Marquis drank more than he ate, and Bulstrode dutifully finished the game and toast, quite glad, in truth, to break the fast of a long evening which he had spent in the close rooms: for no other reason than unseen, to befriend--and unasked, to chaperone Molly's lover. Finally, when he felt that the right moment to say something had come, he smiled at the young man, and said frankly: "Voyons, mon ami, don't you feel that you can talk to me a little more freely than you could possibly to even so kind and charming a friend as Mrs. Falconer? We are not of the same race, perhaps, but then under certain circumstances such distinctions are not important. How do you"--he handled the words as though in presenting them to the young man he was afraid they might prick him--"How do _you_ now stand?--I mean to say, the luck has been rather against you, I'm afraid."