Mrs. Dengelton was engaged on her everlasting fancywork; and Eunice, with a rather disconsolate look on her face, was idly turning over the pages of a book. Crispin stole quietly behind her and glanced over her shoulder. It was a volume of his poems, and he felt flattered. “And to think,” said Mrs. Dengelton, without further prelude, “that you will be so far away from home to-morrow.” “The world is my home,” cried Caliphronas gayly. “We Englishmen are narrower in our ideas,” observed Maurice dryly; “we look on England as our home.” “Ah, there’s no place like home,” sighed the Honorable Mrs. Dengelton sentimentally. “If by home you mean England, I am very glad of it,” retorted the Count audaciously; “I would rather live in exile in Greece. But come, I will say no more evil things about your beloved island of fogs.” “If you do, I will sing ‘Rule Britannia,’” said Maurice, laughing. “What is that?” “Our national song. Do you know any national songs of your country.” Caliphronas smiled with an expression of supreme indifference. “No; I know nothing of patriotism. I have never given it a thought. All my songs are of love and wine.” “Oh!” said Mrs. Dengelton in a shocked tone; “really, Count, you say the most dreadful things!” “Other times other manners,” observed the Rector humorously. “Horace, for instance, said things which would shock you, my dear Mrs. Dengelton.” “I’ve no doubt about it,” retorted the lady viciously; “but, thank heaven, I do not know Latin.” “But you know French, aunt,” said Maurice wickedly; “and I am afraid Gyp, George Sand, and Belot, are quite as bad, if not worse, than the Latin poet.” “Maurice,” replied Mrs. Dengelton severely, unable to parry this attack, “remember your cousin is in the room.” “I beg your pardon, aunt.” “And now, Count Caliphronas,” said the good lady, thus appeased, “suppose you sing us one of your songs.” “I am afraid it will shock you,” replied the Count slyly. “Oh dear no! none of us know Greek.” “That is hardly complimentary to me, who have given up all my life to the study of the Greek poets.” “I don’t mean you, Rector, but the young people.” “Oh, I do not mind singing,” said Caliphronas, going to the piano; “if the words of my songs were translated, you would find them very harmless. They only contain the language of love known to all the world.” “Will I play for you?” asked Crispin, looking up from the poem he was reading to Eunice. “If you would be so kind.” “What will you sing?” said the poet, sitting down at the piano. “No love, no wine to-night. It is our last meeting in England, so sing some song of farewell.” “Will I sing ‘The Call to Arms’?” “Yes, that will be stirring enough.”