“In a state of great excitement, too,” said Maurice, laughing. “He has got a satisfactory answer to his letter.”
“It’s all right!” called out Crispin, mounting the steps, waving an open letter in his hand; “the yacht has left England for Syra, with Mrs. Dengelton, the Rector, and Eunice!”
“Is there a letter for me?” asked Maurice, nodding his satisfaction at this intelligence.
“Yes, one from the Rector. See if it encloses one from Eunice to me.”
Maurice tore open the letter of his old tutor, and out dropped an envelope, directed to “Crispin,” in dainty feminine handwriting, of which the poet at once took greedy possession. On the balustrade of the terrace, Maurice sat down to read his letter, and Crispin, after glancing at Eunice’s private note, rattled on to Justinian about the contents of his own correspondence, which he had read on the way hither from the tunnel.
“The agents got my letter all right, sir,” he said gayly, “and had no difficulty in securing the yacht I wanted, which was still in the market. She left England a week ago.”
“For Athens?”
“Why, no. As there was danger of a row, I thought it best she should be near at hand, so wired to the agents that she was to stop at Syra, where she ought to arrive shortly.”
“She left Southampton after your letters, I presume?”
“Yes, a day or so after. Of course they came overland to Brindisi, which gained them five days, or thereabouts, and then caught the boat to Syra, and came straight on here with Georgios. The Eunice!”