The Rector poured himself out a glass of his favorite port, and began to converse with Caliphronas; while Maurice and Crispin, lighting their cigarettes, chatted about the yacht, her sea-going powers, the question of stores, the anticipated time she would take to run down to the Ægean, and such-like marine matters.
“Will you pay us another visit, Count?” asked the Rector, more for the sake of starting a conversation than because he really cared about such a possibility.
“No, I do not think so. I am going to be married and settle down in my own island.”
“Ithaca?”
Caliphronas laughed a little on hearing the name.
“Yes; on Ithaca.”
“Are you a politician?”
“I? No. I care not two straws for the reconstruction of the Greek Empire, the recovery of Byzantium from the Turks, or any of those things which agitate my countrymen. No. I am a terribly selfish man, sir, as you will doubtless think. I only want to live in happiness, and for the good of my fellow-creatures I care nothing.”
“Is that not rather an egotistical way of looking at life?”
“Doubtless, sir, from your point of view, but not from mine. You are a priest of your Church, what we call a Papa in my country, and live the life of the soul, while I live the life of the body. You believe in self-abnegation—I in self-satisfaction. With this beautiful world I am content, but you rack your soul with longings for the life beyond the grave. In a word, I am real, you are ideal; but I am the happiest.”