“No, there is no Adam to that Eve,” said Caliphronas, shaking his head; “at least, there was not when I was in Melnos six months ago. Why should there be? You will find plenty of women as beautiful as Helena.”
“Helena—is that her name? Yes, I have no doubt you will find beautiful women in Greece,—’tis their heritage from Phryne, Lais, and Aspasia; but none can be as beautiful as Helen of Troy.”
“Possibly not; but that woman is Helena of Melnos, not of Troy.”
“I’ll swear she is as beautiful as the wife of Menelaus, whom Paris loved.”
“You seem quite in raptures over this face,” said Caliphronas, with but ill-concealed anger. “Pray, do you propose to be Menelaus or Paris!”
“Why, are you in love with her yourself?” asked Maurice, looking at the Greek in some surprise.
This question touched Caliphronas more nearly than Maurice guessed, but, whatever passion he may have felt for the lady of the picture, he said nothing about it, but laughed in a somewhat artificial manner.
“I in love with her, my friend? No; she is beautiful, I grant you, but I look upon her as I would an exquisite picture. She is nothing to me. Did I not tell you I have a future bride in the East? Yes—in Constantinople; a daughter of the old Byzantine nobles, a Fanariot beautiful as the dawn, who dwells at Phanar.”
“Then I need fear no rivalry from you, Caliphronas?”
“Certainly not. But you seem to have fallen in love with this pictured Helena.”