“Helena!” cried the poet, recognizing the face. “When did she get this taken? Has she been to Athens?”
“No. I took it myself. Oh, I am not absolutely the barbarian you think me. I have gone in for photography. Yes; this is one of my best efforts.”
“And do you think that face will lure Maurice to the East?”
“It ought to,” said Caliphronas, gazing at the picture with a burning light in his eyes; “she is as lovely as her namesake of Troy, and I love her, oh, how I love her!”
“Is it wise, do you think, to introduce a possible rival?”
“That does not matter to me,” replied the Count, slipping the picture into his pocket. “I have Justinian’s promise.”
“Yes, but you have not got Helena’s.”
“Oh, she won’t refuse to marry me.”
“For the sake of her happiness, I hope she will.”
“You are very complimentary,” retorted the Greek ironically, turning away. “Well, I must leave your delightful society, my friend. It is time for me to go to the studio.”