“Helena!” cried the poet, recognizing the face. “When did she get this taken? Has she been to Athens?” “No. I took it myself. Oh, I am not absolutely the barbarian you think me. I have gone in for photography. Yes; this is one of my best efforts.” “And do you think that face will lure Maurice to the East?” “It ought to,” said Caliphronas, gazing at the picture with a burning light in his eyes; “she is as lovely as her namesake of Troy, and I love her, oh, how I love her!” “Is it wise, do you think, to introduce a possible rival?” “That does not matter to me,” replied the Count, slipping the picture into his pocket. “I have Justinian’s promise.” “Yes, but you have not got Helena’s.” “Oh, she won’t refuse to marry me.” “For the sake of her happiness, I hope she will.” “You are very complimentary,” retorted the Greek ironically, turning away. “Well, I must leave your delightful society, my friend. It is time for me to go to the studio.” “Wait a minute! I have not thwarted your plans, because, as far as I can see, they are innocent, but if you induce Maurice to go to the Levant”— “Well?” demanded Caliphronas insolently. “I will go also.” “And your reason?” “A very simple one. I do not trust the scamp called Andros.” “Better known, at least in England, as Constantine Caliphronas,” replied the Count coolly. “Well, come if you like, to watch over your precious friend. I do not wish him harm, but he, and you also, had better beware of Justinian.” CHAPTER IX. THE PORTRAIT. Dreary life, Aching fears, Endless strife, Bitter tears, Lo, a lovely face I see, Changing all the world to me. Love’s delight, Beauty’s face, Smilings bright, Woman’s grace, Thus beholding these in thee, Thou hast changed the world to me.