“I do not intend to,” replied Maurice cheerfully. “No; I now see the excellence of the Rector’s advice. Take an interest in life, and you will be happy. I am taking an interest in life—in your wooing of Eunice, and in Caliphronas.” “Why Caliphronas?” “Because he is my Endymion in the flesh. I am going to create a wonderful statue, Crispin, the like of which has not been seen since the days of Canova. As to this riddle of Caliphronas, we will solve him together.” “Perhaps the solution may be easier than you think.” “Crispin, you know something about this man!” “Nonsense! I tell you I know no one called Caliphronas.” “Names may be assumed,” said Maurice shrewdly, “and I am sure you have met the owner of this one before.” “I meet so many people,” replied Crispin carelessly, “it is probable I may have seen him; but really I can tell you nothing about him—yet.” “Ah! then you will some day?” “My dear Roylands,” said Crispin impatiently, “Caliphronas and his past life is becoming quite a mania with you. I don’t know the man, but from your description, I fancy I have met him, though, as I said before, such description would apply to dozens of other Levantine Greeks. When I see him I will tell you if I recognize him; but what then? he may be only a casual acquaintance, and therefore I will not know his history. If you mistrusted his looks, you should not have asked him to the Grange.” “My dear fellow, it was on account of his looks I did ask him. He is my Endymion, remember. But you are right; I am making a mountain out of a molehill, still, there is some excuse for me. A unique specimen of humanity like Caliphronas does not appear every day in a village like Roylands, so it is natural I should be curious about him. But there, we will say no more about your brother mystery. I am going to have an interview with my bailiff, and you may thank your stars, my friend, you are a poet, and not a landed proprietor.” Maurice sauntered away laughing, looking by no means the kind of man to overburden himself with work; but Crispin remained leaning over the balustrade of the terrace, gazing absently at the silver spray of the fountain glittering in the sunlight, and thinking deeply. “I wonder what he wants here,” thought the poet, with a frown on his expressive face. “A man like that does not come down to a quiet village for nothing. Can it be to see me? No! that is impossible, as he could not know I was here. Curious I never saw him in London, for he must have been there at the same time as myself, unless, indeed, he has just arrived in England. He has some scheme in his head, I am certain—if I could only see him alone and fathom his motives! Oh, you fox you! Cunning as you are, I will foil you. It is no good. You are after my friend, I’m sure of that.” He walked forward a few paces, still pondering, then resumed his soliloquizing in a muttered tone.