“I am Helena,” she repeated gravely, drawing him a little to the left, so that the moonlight fell on his face. “You can have no idea how anxious I was to see you, Mr. Roylands. I do so love to see one of my countrymen.”
“Are you English?”
“Yes,” said Helena proudly, dropping his hands, much to his regret; “my father is English, so I am also, although my mother was a Greek. Still, I have spoken your language all my life, and have been brought up like an English girl, so I must be English.”
She spoke in a tone of such conviction that Maurice began to laugh, in which merriment she joined freely.
“My father would not tell me anything about you,” she resumed gayly; “and as you are the first Englishman that has come to Melnos, I was anxious to see what you were like.”
“I hope your anxiety has been repaid,” observed Maurice, with a smile.
“Oh, indeed it has. You are very good-looking, especially when you smile.”
Roylands was rather taken aback by this naïveté, and, being unaccustomed to such direct compliments, blushed like a girl, much to the amusement of Helena, who stood looking at him with clear, truthful eyes.
“Do you not like me saying that?” she observed innocently. “Andros always likes to be told he’s good-looking.”
“Well, I am not so conceited as Andros—at least, I trust I am not,” answered Maurice, quite touched by her rustic innocence; “but, you know, ladies in England do not speak so—so—very plainly.”