And of their wooing the fruit am I.”
Both the Englishmen were strangely fascinated by this stranger. He conducted himself in quite an unconventional fashion, and seemed to follow the last thought that suggested itself to his capricious brain.
“Come!” he cried, springing to his feet with a bound like a deer. “Come, Mr. Maurice—are you a runner? I will race you round this garden.”
“Really, Count,” said the Rector, somewhat startled.
“Eh! Am I wrong, sir?” replied Caliphronas apologetically. “I ask your pardon! I do not know your English ways; you must teach me. I act as I feel. Is it wrong to do so?”
“Well, we English like to see a little more self-restraint,” said Maurice, looking at the graceful figure of the young man. “By the way, are you going to stay here long?”
The smile faded from the bright face of the Count, and he turned half away with an abrupt movement.
“Who can tell?” he said lightly. “I am a bird of passage. I alight here and there, but fly when I am weary of the bough. You wonder at my coming down here, do you not, Mr. Maurice?”
Thus addressed directly, Roylands was rather taken aback, and reddened perceptibly through the tan of his skin.
“Well, for a gay young man like you, Count, I thought London would have pleased you better.”