The young men, astonished at the courtesy of their reception, Crispin being not less so than Maurice, went out with Gurt after the man; and Justinian, flinging himself into a chair, with a deep sigh, covered his face with his hands. Caliphronas, leaning gracefully against one of the pillars, looked at this exhibition of what he considered weakness with disdain, but did not dare to break upon the revery of Justinian, of whom he had a wholesome dread. He picked a pink oleander blossom and placed it in his belt, then, after walking about for a few minutes with a frown on his face, sat down on a stone margin of the fountain and began to dabble in the water with his hands. After a time, Justinian looked up with a second sigh.
“Well, what do you think of him?” asked the Count in Greek, at the sound of which the old man made a gesture of annoyance.
“Speak English, you fool! I love to hear my own language.”
“You will get plenty of it shortly, then,” said Caliphronas coolly. “Nine Englishmen already on the island,—bah! it is a British possession.”
“You are right, Andros. I am British, and as this island is mine, it is a British possession.”
Caliphronas frowned, as if this way of looking at things was distasteful to him, but, not caring to argue about such a delicate matter, repeated his first remark.
“Well, what do you think of him?”
“Maurice Roylands?”
“Yes.”
Justinian pondered a moment, and was about to reply, when, catching sight of the eager gleam in the Greek’s eyes, he altered his mind at once.