“Is his daughter.”
“His daughter!” repeated Maurice gravely. “Is she as beautiful as this portrait shows her to be?”
“I should say more so,” replied Crispin, taking the photograph. “Here you only get absolute stillness; the great charm of Helena lies in the changeful expression of her face, and in her bright manner. Yes, she is altogether charming, and I do not wonder you have fallen in love with her face, even though this photograph fails to do justice to the original.”
In spite of his passion for Helena, which should have made him delight in these praises of her beauty, Maurice did not pay much attention to Crispin’s speech, as he was thinking deeply, and the current of his thoughts was indicated by his next remark.
“Crispin, you said Caliphronas was merely a chance acquaintance you met at Athens; but, as far as I can judge from the hints you drop, I believe you know him very well.”
“That is the real truth,” replied Crispin, without flinching. “I did meet this Greek at Athens, but I knew him before that—in Melnos. Oh, I can tell you many things which would astonish you, but I cannot do so yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have strong reasons for such reticence,” said the poet coldly; “either trust me in all or not at all. This journey you are undertaking means more than you think, but I will not fail you, and as long as I am by your side you will take no hurt.”
“Are we in the Middle Ages? Is Caliphronas a freebooter, that you talk as if I were in danger?”
“I will explain all some day, and you will be rather astonished at my story.”