... "And your mother?" asked the girl.
"Nothing—" De Presle-Vaulx whispered, "nothing, counts but you."
Over their heads Bulstrode met his friend's eye, and in his were—he could not help it—triumph, keen delight, and in hers there was anger at him and tears.
At this moment the waiter put his head in at the door and implored Monsieur to come down if he wanted the seat in the window.
"Oh, we're coming!" Mrs. Falconer cried impatiently. "Molly, there's some eau-de-cologne on the table. Put it on your eyes. Don't be long or we'll lose our place. The West will keep!"
She went out of the door and Bulstrode followed her. In the hall she said tartly:
"Well, I hope you're satisfied! I never saw a more perfect inquisitor. Why didn't you live at the time of the Spanish persecution?"
He ignored her scathing question:
"I am satisfied," he said happily, "with both of them; they're bricks."
The lady made no reply as she rustled along by his side to the elevator.