The Marquis looked at the fine face of the elder man. Years had, with their gentle history, and kindly records, touched Jimmy Bulstrode lightly. Every experience made him better to look at; "like a good picture," Mrs. Falconer had said, "painted by a master, and only growing more splendid." Nothing of the worldliness of the roué marked his expression. His memories were clear and honorable, and the Frenchman experienced a sensation of surprise and also one of enlightenment as he looked at him and responded to his expression. He had never seen any one quite like this man of the world, could not think of his prototype in France.
He repeated:
"Nothing but the woman in the world—? Honor—" Bulstrode quickly added, "and the woman—they are synonymous."
In watching his companion he wondered in how much of a tangle the Frenchman's mind was, and just how deep his feet were sunk in the meshes of conventionality and tradition, and decided: "Oh, is it too much to believe that he could——!"
As if in answer to his thoughts, De Presle-Vaulx spoke in the simplest manner possible:
"J'aime Molly."
Quite surprised at the simplicity, Bulstrode beamed on him and waited.
Then the other added:
"But I can't ask any woman to share poverty and debts, and I have no way of making a living; I'm not bred for it."
"You are not an invalid?"