Her name was Virginia, and well it befitted her. Where had I seen her face, or whom did she recall? My memory fled over scores of faces and pictures, and instantly I bethought me of the Empress Eugénie when she was the Countess Montijo. A marvellous likeness in profile and style! She is about sixteen, and, if she can speak English, who knows? Simultaneously with the drift of my thoughts, Evangelides in the easiest manner led the conversation with the seniors to marriage of young people. He was so pointed that I became uneasy. My face began to burn as I felt the allusions getting personal. Jove! what a direct people these Greeks are! Not a particle of reserve! No shilly-shallying, or beating about the bush, but, ‘I say, is your daughter ripe for marriage? If so, here is a fine young fellow quite ready.’ Evangelides was nearly as plain as this. Then the mother turned to me, and asked, ‘Are you married?’ ‘Heaven forbid!’ said I. ‘Why?’ she said, smiling, with proud consciousness of superior knowledge on her face. ‘Is marriage so dreadful?’ ‘I am sure I don’t know, but I have not thought of the subject.’ ‘Oh, well, I hope you will think of it now; there are many fair women in Greece; and Greek women make the best wives.’ ‘I am quite ready to believe you, and if I met a young Greek lady who thought as much of me as I of her, I might be tempted to sacrifice my independence,’ I answered, more with a view to avoid an awkward silence than with a desire to keep up such a terribly personal conversation with strangers. ‘I am sure,’ said the lady, ‘if you look around, you will find a young lady after your heart.’ I bowed, but my face was aflame. With astonishing effrontery Evangelides maintained the pointed conversation until I saw my own uneasiness reflected in Virginia’s face, who grew alternately crimson and pale. Both colours agreed with her, and I pitied her distress, and frowned on Evangelides, who, however, was incorrigible. Then I began to ask myself, was this really Greek custom, or was it merely a frantic zeal on Evangelides’s part? Was this the Sirens’ Isle, wherein the famed Ulysses was so bewitched, or was the atmosphere of the Cyclades fatal to bachelorhood? It would never do to tell in detail all I thought, or give all my self-questionings; but, ever and anon in my speculations, I stole a glance at Virginia’s face, and each glance started other queries. ‘Is this to be a farcical adventure, or shall it be serious’? I felt that only the mute maiden could answer such a question. Susceptible and romantic I know I am, but it requires more than a pretty face to rouse passionate love. We rose to go, each protesting that we had passed a pleasant evening. The lady of the house promises, half-seriously, to find a nice wife for me. ‘Do,’ say I, ‘and I will be eternally grateful. Good-bye, Miss Virginia.’ ‘Good-bye,’ she says timidly, blushing painfully.