The old man laughed approvingly, and nodded his head.
“I will be glad of that. None of my Greeks can sculpture. It is a lost art with the Hellenes since the days of Praxiteles.”
“I will make a statue of Helena here as Venus Urania.”
“Better as Chloris,” remarked Caliphronas, with a forced smile, coming forward; “Chloris, the goddess of flowers.”
“For that charming suggestion,” cried Helena, rising to her feet, “I will give you a rose, Andros!”
“I will treasure it as my life,” he replied in a low, passionate voice, as she fastened the flower in his embroidered jacket.
“What about my rose, Helena?” asked Maurice, who viewed this proceeding with silent rage.
“Here is one for you,” answered Helena quickly; “both roses are red, so you can’t complain I don’t treat you fairly.”
“Perhaps you had better make the roses white, in order to mean silence,” said Caliphronas, pale with anger as he saw Maurice receive a flower; “the red rose means love, you know.”
“Sisterly love,” retorted Helena, looking at him with an undeniable frown.