“Which means unless it is inconvenient, or dangerous, or humiliating. But that’s just it, Kalliopé. You must learn to tell the truth without fear of consequences. You would like to see Janni grow up brave and truthful, like an English boy—like what I hope Harold will be?”
“I should not like to see him grow up a fool,” said Danaë smartly. Then she was frightened by what she had said. “O, my lady, you are right, and I am very ungrateful. Make my little lord what you please; it can only be good. And I will try to mould myself as you wish, but do not talk of separating me from him, for he is my very life.”
The instinctive suppleness of the Greek nature revolted Zoe, but she said no more, hoping that the girl felt more than she would allow. As a matter of fact, Danaë was consoling herself with the reflection that once Janni had received a general education suitable to his birth—such as he would gain in Harold’s company—it would be quite easy to add any little extra polish in which he might be deficient. Nothing could be farther from her wishes than that he should grow up with the conscientious scruples which beset these extraordinary English. She felt herself wasted as a spy upon them, and nothing but the conviction that they could not possibly be so open and sincere as they seemed kept her from boredom. Sooner or later she would discover that the Princess Eirene, at any rate, was engaged in some intrigue against Prince Romanos, involving her husband and his family, and this would justify her watch. Then would come that magnificent moment, the goal of her aspirations, when, in gorgeous European clothes provided by her own exertions, Danaë would appear at her brother’s palace, leading Janni, a noble stripling, by the hand, and it would burst upon the astonished Prince Romanos that he possessed not only a promising heir, but also a sister eminently qualified to preside over his court. Few people would have considered that very second-rate and rather Bohemian assemblage as an abode to be desired, but to Danaë the dream of leading it, intriguing in it, and initiating Janni into its devious ways, was perfect bliss. As for the English, it might be convenient to have them for enemies, and she did not object to them as private friends, but as allies they were emphatically not to be desired.
About this time her acquaintance with the despised race was extended by the arrival of a visitor at the Konak. As she was helping Linton to prepare the guest-rooms in the old part of the building on the ground-floor, she gleaned some interesting information about him beforehand. He was Lord Armitage, little Harold’s godfather, and—so she learned with extreme interest—a former suitor of the Lady Zoe’s.
“But why did she not marry him?” she demanded. “You say he was a Milordo, and rich, with a whole ship of his own, and the Lord Glafko is poor.”
“Because he wasn’t the man for her,” returned Linton sharply. “She could turn him round her little finger.”
“Then he has not cruel eyes, that seem to pierce you through, and a mouth that shuts like a trap?” inquired Danaë curiously.
“That he hasn’t. But”—as Linton realised suddenly what the question implied—“if you mean that the Colonel has, it strikes me you are forgetting your place, my girl. The Colonel is a real gentleman, and it’s not for you to pass remarks on him. Lord Armitage is pleasant and well-spoken, with a kind word for everybody, but a sort of boy that will never grow up.”
“Oh, holy Antony!” groaned Danaë despairingly, “these English! They are all children—all that I have seen. And now here is one coming whom the English themselves call a child! Does he bring a nurse with him, to put on his pinafores and feed him as you do the Lord Harold?”
“I suppose you think that’s funny?” demanded the irate Linton. “You take my advice, Kalliopé, and curb that tongue of yours, or it will get you into trouble, and serve you right too. His lordship brings his secretary and his body-servant, as any nobleman would, and very likely some armed guards, as he comes by land. Though what he wants a secretary for is beyond me, for I should say he doesn’t write many more letters in the year than I do.”