“You are no idealist,” said Caliphronas petulantly. “Dull Englishman as you are, the land of romance spreads her wonders in vain for you. Creespeen, you are a poet; behold the daughters of the sea!”
Crispin smiled absently, and tossed his cigarette into the waters which rushed past, glittering in the moonlight with the grayish glint of steel.
“You forget that this is no galley of Ulysses, my friend. A modern steamer, with a noisy screw beating the waters, is enough to scare away all the nymphs in the vicinity.”
“And this is a poet!” cried the Greek indignantly, addressing the stars; “this dull-eyed being who can see no wonders in the seas! Oh, shade of Homer, conjure up for him the island nymph, Calypso, and her lovely train; conjure”—
“I think Homer will have to conjure up himself first,” said Crispin flippantly.
“Which he certainly will not do on the ocean,” added Maurice lazily; “your mighty poet was a land-lubber.”
Caliphronas looked indignantly at them both, then went off in a rage.
“I will go and have a talk to the sailors.”
“Don’t addle their English brains with your classical rubbish,” shouted Crispin satirically; “if you do, they may wreck us.”
“Wreck you!” said the Greek to himself, with a start. “There is many a true word spoken in jest, my friend; perhaps you will be wrecked before we reach Melnos.”