“I think you can congratulate yourself on the three days of the festival being a perfect success,” he said to Justinian, who sat veiling his real feelings under a quiet smile.
“Yes; everything went off very well. Andros, you, as the god of wine, were the hero of the first day.”
“And Crispin, as Æschylus-Aristophanes, of the second,” cried Maurice brightly.
“Not forgetting Maurice, as the athlete Milo of the third,” replied the poet, raising his glass.
“Oh dear, dear!” said Helena, with a merry smile; “I am afraid this is a mutual admiration society. God, poet, athlete; you are all flattering yourselves, but no one says a good word for me.”
“It is impossible to flatter perfection,” remarked Caliphronas with one of his burning glances; “besides, you have been the queen of the three days, and we are all secondary characters. The stars are not the rivals of the sun.”
“Why did you not say the moon?” said Helena, fastening a red rose in the breast of her robe. “I love the moon better than the sun.”
“You are the inviolate Artemis!”
“Without an Endymion.”
It was an unlucky remark, and Helena regretted having made it when she saw how fiercely her two lovers glanced at one another.