“So this dear Creespeen has told you who I am, and what I am,” he said, looking insolently at Maurice. “Well, and what do you think of me?”
“You would hardly feel flattered if I told you,” retorted Roylands, lighting his cigarette once more.
“Ah, bah! Praise or blame is all the same to me. Oh, I know your dull English respectability which shudders at the truth. Yet I dare say, with my little excursions with Alcibiades, my assuming of a false name, my philosophy of enjoying myself at the expense of others, I am no worse than many of your holy people, who go to church, and, under the guise of self-denial, enjoy all that life can give. I may be what you call bad, but I am at least not a hypocrite.”
“By which remark I presume you infer I am one.”
“No, I do not. You have not enough character to make you either bad or good. You lead a dull, respectable life, because you like dull respectability. If you had leanings in the other direction, I will do you the justice to say that I have no doubt you would not have concealed them from the world.”
“Thank you,” replied Maurice dryly; “your opinion of my character is most gratifying.”
“As to you, Creespeen,” said Caliphronas, turning to the poet with an evil smile, “I knew you were prudish in many ways, a milksop as Justinian called you, and a man afraid of going against the opinion of the world, but I did not know you were an oath-breaker nor a tale-bearer.”
“Nor am I,” answered Crispin, keeping his temper wonderfully under the insults of the Greek, for, after all, it would have been worse than useless to quarrel with him.
“I did not tell about Justinian, or of anything connected with your visit to England. All I revealed was my own life and your real character, which it is only right my friend should know.”
“As for that,” retorted Caliphronas carelessly, “I do not mind. Mask on, mask off, it is all the same to me; but, as regards what I told you in confidence, I am glad you were wise enough not to reveal it, as you would have to settle accounts with Justinian, not with me.”