“To her latest incarnation, mademoiselle. I see the ideal Meteora under the form of many a very unideal woman, alas! Love is one, but the lover perceives it in more places than one.”
“You are frank, monsieur.” Zoe was reflecting how singularly agreeable this theory must be for the poet, and how very inconvenient for the ladies who enjoyed successively the honour of embodying his ideal.
“I am, mademoiselle. I had flattered myself that frankness was the personal note of my work, but it seems that this has not suggested itself to you.”
“Certainly I noticed that Meteora’s personal appearance seemed to vary.”
“Exactly, mademoiselle. Where beauty is, there is the loved one.” His eyes strayed to the graceful figure of Donna Olimpia Pazzi, as she passed them on an errand for the Princess. “Why should such details as the colour of eyes and hair interfere with the course of love?”
“Why, indeed?” said Zoe. “What a poseur the man is!” she thought impatiently. “Would Emilia consider it unkind if I passed him on to some one else now?” Looking round for a way of escape, her eyes encountered the fixed gaze of Professor Panagiotis, who had been walking through the rooms with Maurice, but had stopped dead, and was staring at her companion with something like stupefaction. Maurice turned impatiently to see why he was waiting, but the Professor grasped his arm and drew him towards Zoe, whom he addressed in tones like distant thunder.
“Will you have the goodness, madame, to present that gentleman to his Highness your brother?”
“It is rather difficult, since I only know his pseudonym,” said Zoe. “This is Apolis, the poet, Maurice.”
“Say, rather, this is Prince Romanos Christodoridi, the hereditary enemy of your line,” the Professor corrected her savagely. “Pray, monsieur, how did you come here?”
“I do not acknowledge the right of this person to question me,” said the poet, turning from the Professor and addressing himself to Maurice. “You, sir, are my opponent, I presume. Have you anything to ask?”