But Giles, gazing at the letter, found no reply.
“It must, of course, be some Frenchman,” said Jerry. “Can you imagine who it is? Have you heard anything at all?”
Giles shook his head.
“Does her mother know any decent men?” Jerry inquired.
Giles folding the letter tried to think. Were they decent men? Judged by the world’s standards, André de Valenbois was as decent as Jerry himself. The difference was that he would not be decent for Alix. “Yes,” he said, then, slowly. “I suppose they are quite decent. Only Frenchmen are different, you know.”
He felt Jerry scanning his face. “You mean that no decent Frenchman would think of marrying her?”
At this Giles felt as if he clutched Alix back from a danger. She might have betrayed herself to him; he could not bear to see her betrayed to Jerry. “She may marry someone quite decent, you see, but not of her own class. Some nice young artist, for instance, some savant. Her mother knows all sorts of interesting people.”
“But she doesn’t say anything about marrying,” Jerry persisted. “It doesn’t somehow sound like getting married, does it? She’d tell his name if it was that.”
“Well, I don’t know. Not at once; not to you, so soon. It may be only coming on between them. Nothing definite may yet have been said.”
“I didn’t know French girls were allowed to have things come on,” said Jerry. “I thought it was arranged for them.”