He certainly looked as if he believed it when Lady Mealhead told him--and his expressive Gallic eyes waxed tender at the mention of her mother, the relict of the late clergyman, whose name had somehow been overlooked by Crockford.

A Frenchman loves his mother--in the abstract.
Nor could M.de Chauxville take exception at young Cyril Squyrt, the poet.

Cyril looked like a poet.

He wore his hair over his collar at the back, and below the collar-bone in front.

And, moreover, he was a poet--one of those who write for ages yet unborn.