“Artemis waited a long time for her shepherd, but he came at last,” said the Greek significantly.
“And did nothing but sleep when he did come,” cried Maurice angrily; “a pretty lover truly! Helena, you are no moon-goddess, but your namesake of Troy—the world’s desire.”
“Yet even Helen had her Paris,” interposed Caliphronas quickly.
“Every woman has her Paris nowadays,” said Crispin quickly, to forestall the angry reply of the rival lover; “only it is a city instead of a man, which is just as charming and more manageable. If Menelaus had been ruler of Lutetia, Helen would never have been persuaded to leave it for a dull provincial town like Troy.”
“‘Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris!’” observed Justinian quietly. “Tennyson’s line would apply equally to the son of Priam or the city of pleasure. There, Crispin, is the subject for a song, which idea I will make you a present of for nothing.”
“Sing of Paris the city,” cried Helena vivaciously.
“No, Paris the man,” said Maurice, with a glance at Caliphronas.
“Sing of both,” rejoined that gentleman quickly, out of sheer contradiction.
“It is a hard task to improvise on so difficult a subject as ‘the Paris of Paris,’” remarked Crispin jestingly; “however, I will try, although I have no lyre.”
“Take this myrtle,” said Helena, tossing him a twig across the table, “and sing to it in the Greek fashion.”