“There is nothing to explain,” said Crispin, with a yawn; “you know the way Caliphronas exaggerates. I suppose he wants to make out that Melnos is a barbaric place, and that this cruise partakes of the nature of a journey into Darkest Africa.”
“I have heard more nonsense to-night than I ever heard before in my life,” said Maurice, still ruffled. “Pseudo-counts, patriarchal knights, islands of fantasy, hintings of dangers. It is like a novel of adventure.”
Caliphronas laughed, but said nothing, while Crispin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and refilled it finally for a last smoke before turning in.
“I suppose you are very shocked at Creespeen’s flattering description of me,” remarked the Count calmly.
“Hm! I hardly know. You are a picturesque scamp, but only a scamp for all that.”
“This candor is delightful.”
“Caliphronas,” observed Crispin, settling himself into a more comfortable attitude, “is a gentleman who believes that Number One is the greatest number.”
“Every one in the world does that, my dear Creespeen.”
“Probably, but they don’t show it so openly as you do.”
“Hypocrites!”