“Ah, your lost uncle!” said the Demarch, with an ambiguous smile. “You must tell me your family history some day.”
“I am afraid it will be necessary soon,” replied Maurice, glancing at Helena.
“Ah, you think so? Well, remember my desire about you being my successor, Maurice. I wish your answer shortly.”
“You will have it as soon as I hear from England.”
“Well, that will be soon. I have a boat waiting at Syra for your letters, so I trust you will your reply, and Crispin his yacht, shortly.”
“Then you still anticipate trouble?”
“I do! Remember we have one possessing the fatal name of Helena here. She is the firebrand, as you well know; but we will talk of these things another time, my son. Meanwhile, let us come and look at the shooting.”
As Maurice turned to accompany the old man, he felt a soft touch on his arm, and, on looking down, saw that Helena, with an expression of pity on her beautiful face, was looking at him.
“Are you hurt, Maurice?” she said anxiously.
“No, not at all!” he replied, laughing. “Dick gave me a nasty one on the nose, which is rather painful, but nothing to speak of. But to-morrow, I will be such a sight, as you will shudder to look on me.”