"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.