Daphne, this summer night is full of singing; I hear my comrades sigh at the windows of those they worship; The windows are open, but thy lattice is closed. “Love!” calls the lover to his beloved. “Love!” answers the beloved with smiling lip. But from your window you call not “Love!” Wherefore the night is empty of singing to me: Lean from your lattice, capricious one, And I will sing the strain of the nightingale to the rose. Yes! you have heard me: you open your window, I can see the silver daggers gleam in your hair; And you throw me a rose, which sighs “I love thee.” Ah, you have spoken to the rose, and the message is told. Good-night, my Daphne, sleep with the sound of my voice in thine ears; But for me there is no slumber, For all night will I demand of the rose your message, And the rose will reply, “I love thee! I love thee!” “Thank you so much,” said Eunice, coming over to the piano. “I do not know what it means, but it sounds wonderfully charming.” “It is a love-song.” “I wish I had a translation of it.” “I will translate it if you wish, Miss Dengelton,” said Crispin, by no means relishing the attention which Eunice was paying to the Greek. “What! do you know Greek?” “Modern Greek; yes. I have been in Greece a great deal.” “A great deal,” echoed Caliphronas, with an evil smile. Crispin faced round abruptly, and was about to say something in an undertone, but, after a moment’s deliberation, turned slowly away. The Count looked after him with a smiling face, and then devoted himself to Eunice, who was by no means averse to receiving his attentions. Now, Eunice must not be misjudged. It is true that she felt flattered by the attentions of such a strikingly handsome man as Caliphronas; but she was not, as Crispin in his jealousy thought, attracted in any marked degree by this stranger. In fact, she was playing a little comedy for the blinding of her lynx-eyed mother; for, afraid lest that lady should discover that she was secretly engaged to Crispin, with the instinctive craft of womankind, Eunice pretended to be more taken up with the Greek than with the poet. By following this course, she thought her mother’s mind would be set at rest concerning the rivalry of Crispin with Maurice. Alas! the plan was a good one, and excellently well carried out; but such diplomacy met with but an ill reward, as in avoiding Charybdis she fell into the clutches of Scylla; for, in place of an angry mother, she had to put up with an angry lover.