“Good-bye for the present, Constantine. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be friends with you again.”
“Stay! one word, I pray your Majesty,” chimed the imperturbable Agiropoulos. Selaka flung round uneasily, and frowned on him inquiringly. “Relieve an anxious mind. Is the beautiful nymph of the hills well?”
“My niece?”
“The peerless maid of Tenos! Who else? The modern Helen! Strange that history should repeat itself. How many Iliums have since been burnt, albeit it takes by our humble calculations less than ten years nowadays. That’s the beauty of the calendar. It ties us to dates, and the newspapers do their best to tie us to hard facts.”
“They don’t always succeed,” sneered Constantine.
“There speaks the voice of wisdom—with apologies to our editor. The ‘Aristophanes’ flourishes, I hope? So Helen is well. When does she settle down to serene wifehood in the house of Menelaus?”
“Let my niece alone, sir. You are not acquainted with her. The respect of women is a commendable virtue in young men,” Constantine growled, turning on his heel.
Gustav Reineke was writing in his room when Constantine was announced. He started up, confused and wondering, keeping the hand which held his pen pressed upon the papers on the table, and looked inquiringly at Inarime’s uncle.
“Kyrie Selaka,” he said, and smiled vaguely.