“She is admirably well—and looks it, and your kind inquiry leaves me your debtor. The virgin blush of health and heroism mantles her brow, and she is all the better for her little misadventure and the fever, which fortunately for me, the happy successor, has entirely carried off the susceptible humours of an earlier fancy.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Constantine exclaimed, heartily. “It is very wise of her to marry at once, and shake herself free of the whole affair. It must be unpleasant for you, however.”
“Not in the least, my friend. In the interests of the dramatic I am a willing sufferer; I will go so far as to describe myself a delighted martyr. I adore the drama, and if there is a thing that wearies me, it is the thought of monotonous and tame maidenhood. Mademoiselle Karapolos, in default of a warlike Hector, which a mind more classical might exact, will next month graciously condescend to accept my name in the genitive case. Kyria Agiropoulou (Poor girls! it is sad to think that they are not allowed the privilege of a surname in the nominative case) is a heroine with a touch of flame and fire in her veins. I have none myself, and it gratifies me to know that the destructive influence of two phlegmatic temperaments is happily avoided for my posterity.”
“Good heavens! Who is that?” cried Constantine, standing, and with his hand grasped the back of a chair, and stared amazedly at a slowly advancing carriage.
Agiropoulos turned round with more haste than his boast of a phlegmatic temperament warranted, gazed with impertinent and complacent curiosity through his eye-glass at a carriage bowling gaily down from the Boulevard d’Amélie, which contained an ostensible Indian prince, dark but not beautiful, who leaned his head indolently against the shoulder of a fashionable young Athenian lady, whose mother sat alone with her back to the horses.
“Typical of the graceful and amiable abandonment of modern life,” lisped Agiropoulos. “The prince has diamonds and rupees in abundance. A little must be conceded such a happy being. If this public concession succeed in the regular way—the mamma on the front seat and the gentleman on the back, in her place, with his head negligently pillowed on the daughter’s shoulder—think of the gain, my friends. Oh, I see it on your lips, my excellent Constantine, but spare me the Scriptures. I can stand most things but a biblical quotation. Strange, it is only then I discover I possess that distressing outcome of modern life—nerves. What does it matter—the loss of soul against the gain of the world? I know the quotation. The young lady probably has no soul—why should she? A soul is the most inconvenient thing I know of, except perhaps a conscience.”
“I call it a disgraceful sight. If the prince does not marry her?” thundered Selaka, indignantly.
“Which is very likely, my dear fellow. In that case the mamma will bring her spotted lamb to Paris, or perhaps London, or naughtier Vienna, and the stain of the royal head will be washed off her shoulder by less magnificent wedding favours.”
“You are brutally cynical, Agiropoulos. Thank God, I live on an innocent island where one never hears such thoughts expressed. Good-bye, Stavros.”
“You are indeed an enviable mortal, dropped into this mire out of that Arcadia. But go, leave the dust and depravity of this much too exciting town, and return to your shepherds and flocks and peaceful mountain altitudes. To us, alas! the glitter and distracting noises!”