Prince Christodoridi sat alone on the terrace, in the most unamiable of tempers. Evening was drawing on, and the guests had departed, after doing full justice to the coffee and syrup, the preserves of roses and quinces, handed round by the girls. They were provided with a subject of conversation that would crop up for many a long day, and Prince Christodoridi writhed under the knowledge of it. He had been over-reached and publicly flouted, and what was worse, Loukas Smaragdopoulos held fast to the extra five hundred drachmæ. He had intended his son to marry the Despot’s elder daughter, he said, and had prepared apartments for them on a suitable scale, and if he was to be put off with the younger, at least he would not be done out of his money as well. It had required all the diplomacy of Parthenios Chalkiadi, and the restraint imposed by the presence of the English stranger, to keep the wrangle within due bounds, but Kyrios Loukas had gone away without consenting to forgo his claim, which meant that it would have to be acknowledged. And this was not the worst. If Prince Christodoridi carried his grievance to the Patriarchal tribunal, and asked for the annulment of the betrothal, it was ten to one that he would merely waste more money without obtaining satisfaction. But if Angeliké were married before her elder sister, he would be eternally disgraced in the opinion of all his acquaintances, yet to find a husband for Danaë as well meant the provision of two dowries at once—a prospect which was enough to wring tears of blood from the hapless father. It was little wonder that when Angeliké made an unobtrusive appearance, and began to clear away the coffee-cups, he swore at her angrily and bade her bring him his stick. But it seemed indeed as if the very foundations of the earth were out of course, since this hitherto submissive slave made no attempt to obey. Instead, she stood before him meekly with clasped hands.
“Why would you beat me, lord?” she asked softly.
“You know very well. Fetch that stick!” vociferated her father.
“Nay, lord; listen a moment. You robbed me of the bridegroom you had promised. Did I rebel? I wept, but even my tears were put away in obedience to your will. But when the opportunity offered—ah, lord, I was resigned, as I thought, but a voice in my heart bade me seize my chance, and I listened. Beat me if you will, but had you been in my place, would you have suffered your sister to steal your bridegroom?”
“It was not your sister’s doing; it was mine—and you have made your father a laughing-stock, girl.”
“Ah, lord, not so—never! Surely no one could ever laugh at you!”
The tone was so serious, so reverential, that Prince Christodoridi found his wrath melting away in a most unwonted manner. The thought was a gratifying one—and Angeliké was nestling close to his knees, and gazing up with admiring eyes into his face. Quite without warning she gave a little laugh. “I wonder why Danaë fainted!” she said.
“Because she is a fool, and you are another,” growled her father.
“I wonder—” Angeliké edged away a little—“I wonder why the English lord came here.”
“Not to behold your beauty, at any rate.”