“Why,” said the French minister, “you understand that the English gentilhomme does not require a De or a title to distinguish him from the roturier.”
“I know that; but he has an air above a simple gentilhomme. There is something great in his look; but it is not, I must own, the conventional greatness of rank: perhaps he would have looked the same had he been born a peasant.”
“You don’t think him handsome?” said Lord Taunton, almost angrily (for he was one of the Beauty-men, and Beauty-men are sometimes jealous).
“Handsome! I did not say that,” replied Madame de Ventadour, smiling; “it is rather a fine head than a handsome face. Is he clever, I wonder?—but all you English, milord, are well educated.”
“Yes, profound—profound: we are profound, not superficial,” replied Lord Taunton, drawing down his wrist-bands.
“Will Madame de Ventadour allow me to present to her one of my countrymen?” said the English minister approaching—“Mr. Maltravers.”
Madame de Ventadour half smiled and half blushed, as she looked up, and saw bent admiringly upon her the proud and earnest countenance she had remarked.
The introduction made—a few monosyllables exchanged. The French diplomatist rose and walked away with the English one. Maltravers succeeded to the vacant chair.
“Have you been long abroad?” asked Madame de Ventadour.
“Only four years; yet long enough to ask whether I should not be most abroad in England.”