Well was it for the Rector that he could see only the splendid casket, and not the soul contained therein, for, in spite of his instinctive distrust, the fancy he had that this Count was not to be trusted fell far below the actual moral degradation of the man. Caliphronas was as vain as a peacock, absolutely ignorant of the morality of right or wrong, lazy in every way save what touched his own desires, and crafty as a fox. Crispin could have pointed out to the Rector all these flaws, but Crispin had promised to hold his peace so long as Caliphronas abstained from actual harm; therefore he remained quiescent, and only reminded the Greek now and then that there was a watchful eye on his doings. Maurice believed in the Greek, the Rector doubted him, and Crispin knew his worthlessness thoroughly, so among the three of them the character of Caliphronas was pretty well analyzed. From Maurice, the steady, respectable Englishman, with occasional lapses of artistic wildness, to Caliphronas, the brilliant cosmopolitan adventurer, was a long step. Crispin stood midway between the two, as he had a certain amount of British phlegmatism, with at times those wild impulses which come from a wandering life and an intellectual nature. Still, he could control his spontaneity, while Caliphronas, obeying his own undisciplined mind, did whatever came into his head; yet, if any one was scandalized by such unconventionality, he would at once obtain forgiveness by the graceful way in which he apologized. “It is impossible to be angry with you,” said Maurice to him one day, when the Count had been guilty of some ridiculous escapade, “and yet you deserve to be sharply spoken to. But you are a child in many ways, and we cannot be angry with a child.” “There you are right, my dear Mr. Maurice,” replied Caliphronas, smiling. “I am a child, but that is as much as to say, I am a Greek. You remember what the Egyptian priest said to Solon,—‘You Greeks are always children.’ Therefore, if I am a child, and act impulsively like a child, blame my nationality, not myself.” “I expect you could be a very bad child if you wanted to!” said Crispin, overhearing this defence. Caliphronas darted a spiteful look at the speaker. “Very likely,” he replied in a meaning tone; “but those who dread stings should not disturb the wasps’ nest.” There was a distinct menace in his tone, but Crispin felt too confident of having the upper hand to take much notice of this venom, and merely laughed, much to the wrath of the Greek. However, as the time was not yet ripe for action, he restrained his anger, and behaved so amiably to Crispin that it was only the knowledge the poet possessed of his true character that made him mistrust the suave smiles and kindly actions of this Greek Machiavelli.