“Well, gentlemen,” said Justinian, rising from his seat, “I am going to retire to rest, as I cannot do without my sleep. Old age is not like youth, you know. Helena!”
“I am going, father,” she cried, springing to her feet. “Good-night, Andros—Crispin! good-night, Maurice!”
“‘Good-night, and sweet dreams be thine,’” murmured Maurice from some poet.
Their departure was a sign of breaking up, for Caliphronas, not feeling inclined for a conversation with two men he disliked so much, went off immediately; and after they had finished a last pipe, Maurice and Crispin sought their repose.
“Well,” said Crispin, as they parted, “what do you think of Helena?”
“Think of her!” echoed Maurice in an indescribable tone. “That she is simply perfection, far above what you told me. If your poetry is not better than your description, Crispin, it must be poor stuff.”
“You are bewitched, Maurice. Beware the spells of Circe.”
“Circe! No! she is no malignant enchantress, but a beautiful girlish angel.”
“Nausicaa!” said Crispin gayly, and went off to bed.