He did not add that he had all but broken it. Indeed, it was probable that he had already forgotten the fact.
He looked hard at her with his dancing, irresponsible blue eyes. He had the good looks which he shared with some of his horses, of extreme high breeding. He was even handsome in a way, with a thin, reckless, trivial face, and a slender, wiry figure. He looked as light as a leaf, and as if he were being blown through life by any chance wind, the wind of his own vagaries.
His manner had just the shade of admiring familiarity which to some men seems admissible to the pretty daughter of a disreputable old innkeeper.
He peered down at the river, and then at the houses crowding along its yellow quays, mysterious behind their paint as a Frenchwoman behind her pomade and powder.
Then he looked back at her with mock solemnity.
"I see nothing," he said.
"What did you expect to see?"
"Something that had the honour of engaging your attention completely."
"I was looking at the water."
"Just so. But why?"