Eirene obeyed, the more readily that the sight of Zoe in this mood frightened her horribly. A sense of duty had made her follow her, but she ran back gladly to the verandah and Maurice. He met her below the steps, and she nestled close to him.
“Oh, Maurice, I am so glad I have you!” she whispered. “It is horrible to be a woman alone, even if you can’t help it.”
Into the meaning of this cryptic utterance Maurice did not inquire, but it was some little time before he rearranged the floating odds and ends of the Greek dress, and led her up the steps into the field of view of the patient Armitage, demanding sternly what she meant by running away when she was sitting for her portrait. She was posed afresh against the pillar, and Armitage went on with his sketch, but it seemed that fate was warring against its completion. Only a few strokes had been added when Professor Panagiotis appeared on the verandah and invited Maurice’s attention.
“It is rather a serious matter, though the cause is a trifling one,” he said. “Perhaps you would prefer to discuss it privately?”
“I knew we were not married enough!” groaned Maurice. “Wylie always said we ought to have four weddings at least, and we have only had two and a half—counting Sir Frank’s presence as the half. Well, Eirene, you’re just as much concerned as I am, so you had better come. Put in some background or something, can’t you, Armitage, while we’re gone?”
The Professor ushered them into his private room with some ceremony, as though to remind them of the position they held in his plans for the future. On the table lay a document written on parchment in Greek characters.
“It was about this that the slight difficulty arose,” said the Professor. “I thought it well to draw up a brief statement of the circumstances of your marriage, with the signatures of the witnesses, in view of possible developments. One copy you would take to England and place among your family papers, the other I would either entrust to the custody of the Œcumenical Patriarch or put in a safe place of my own, as you prefer. In these days of dynamite, one can never be sure that some night the British and Dacian Consulates will not be blown up simultaneously, and both the original registers destroyed. I have the signatures of the Consuls, you see, but unfortunately Papa Sotirios, the old priest whom we chose to perform the ceremony on account of the simplicity of his character and his detachment from politics, makes a difficulty. You noticed, of course”—turning suddenly to Maurice—“that you were described in the service as ‘the Orthodox Prince Maurice, son of Theodore,’ just as your bride was termed ‘the Orthodox Princess Eirene, daughter of Nicholas’?”
“Not I,” said Maurice. “I knew it was Greek he was reading, and of course I grasped the general drift, but I couldn’t follow his pronunciation a bit.” Eirene’s eyes were anxious.
“Well, it is really very troublesome and absurd,” said the Professor, in hearty, paternal tones, “but it seems Papa Sotirios observed that you did not venerate the ikons on leaving the church, and when I saw him afterwards, he insisted on knowing whether you were truly Orthodox. It sounds ridiculous, but actually, in the hurry of arranging for the wedding, and the difficulty of doing so without arousing notice, I never thought of mentioning that you had not yet joined the Greek Church. Your name disarmed suspicion, and the Patriarch sent his blessing, as Papa Sotirios performed his office, in ignorance of your schismatical standpoint.”
“But does that vitiate the marriage?” cried Maurice. “Nonsense! of course it can’t. The civil ceremony in the presence of the two Consuls can never be upset.”