“That man is the foremost journalist of our time.”
“You may possibly be right,” replied B——. “At any rate, I am ready to assert that for twenty years past no one has known Europe as thoroughly as Leslie Wood.”
Baron Moïse, who was following our talk, shook his head.
“You don’t know the real Wood. I know him myself, though. He was before all things a financier. He had a better grasp of the money market than any one I know. What are you laughing at, Princess?”
Lolling expansively on the sofa, and in gloomy depression at being unable to smoke a cigarette, the Princess Zévorine had smiled.
“You neither of you understand Mr. Wood—neither of you,” she said. “He was always a mystic and a lover, never anything else.”
“I can’t agree to that,” replied Baron Moïse. “But I should be very glad to know where this devil of a fellow has been spending the best ten years of his life.”
“And at what period do you place those best ten years of life?”
“Between the fiftieth and sixtieth years; a man’s position is made by then, and he has nothing to do but enjoy his existence.”
“Baron, you can question Wood himself. He is coming towards us.”