“I assure you, my dear Count,” began Mrs. Dengelton sweetly, “that in the season”—
“What is the season?”
“The London season, which begins in May.”
“Oh, that is what I have seen. Up all night, tired all day, crowded rooms, unhealthy dinners, plenty of talk about nothing, and no rest—is that what you call the season? is that what you term life? St. Theodore! let me go back to Greece, there at least I can live.”
“But Greece is not like London,” said Crispin, with the intention of provoking the Greek.
“No, thank the saints, it is not, as you know well, Mr. Crispin; there, at least, are fresh air, laughing seas, wide plains, lofty mountains—one can breathe there—one can live and delight in living, but here—oh, pardon me, I cannot talk of it. I must go to Mr. Maurice for the Endymion, and I am glad I leave your dull grayness soon.”
When Caliphronas with this parting shot had vanished, Mrs. Dengelton turned to Crispin with a pitying smile.
“What an impulsive creature, is he not, Mr. Crispin? To talk about such barbaric lands, and call existence there life! Ah, he does not know what enjoyment is.”
“I think he does in his own way,” replied Crispin dryly, thinking of the difference between the free, open-air existence of the one, and the narrow, petty life of the other.
“Well, of course, you know a blind man never misses color because he does not know what he loses,” said the lady apologetically. “That poor dear Count is in exactly the same plight. Eunice, my dear, I wish you would go and write that letter to Lady Danvers at once. I want it to catch the noonday post. We go to Lady Danvers when we leave here,” she added, as Eunice left the room. “For my part, I would have been glad to stay here till the autumn, but dear Maurice has been ordered abroad for his health.”