“You seem quite in raptures over this face,” said Caliphronas, with but ill-concealed anger. “Pray, do you propose to be Menelaus or Paris!” “Why, are you in love with her yourself?” asked Maurice, looking at the Greek in some surprise. This question touched Caliphronas more nearly than Maurice guessed, but, whatever passion he may have felt for the lady of the picture, he said nothing about it, but laughed in a somewhat artificial manner. “I in love with her, my friend? No; she is beautiful, I grant you, but I look upon her as I would an exquisite picture. She is nothing to me. Did I not tell you I have a future bride in the East? Yes—in Constantinople; a daughter of the old Byzantine nobles, a Fanariot beautiful as the dawn, who dwells at Phanar.” “Then I need fear no rivalry from you, Caliphronas?” “Certainly not. But you seem to have fallen in love with this pictured Helena.” “I will not go so far as to say that; but you know I have the artistic temperament, and therefore admire beauty always.” “Of course—the artistic sense,” sneered Caliphronas in such a disagreeable way, that Maurice again looked at him in astonishment. The fact is, that Roylands’ admiration of the portrait seemed to ruffle Caliphronas very much, and quite altered his usual nonchalance of manner. Never before had Maurice seen his joyous nature so changed, for he had now a frown on his usually smiling face, and appeared to be on the verge of an angry outbreak. All the wild beast in his nature, which was so carefully hidden by the civilized mask, seemed to show in the most unexpected manner, and with flashing eyes, tightly drawn lips, and scowling countenance, he looked anything but the serene Greek with whom Roylands was acquainted. Maurice was astonished and rather annoyed at this exhibition of temper, so, rising from his seat, he gave the picture back to his guest with a dignified gesture. “I have no wish to pry into your secrets, Count,” he said quietly, walking towards the door; “you showed me that portrait of your own free will, and if I admire it somewhat warmly, surely the beauty of the face is my excuse. At present I will say _au revoir_, as I have some business to do, and will be in my study till luncheon.” When Maurice disappeared, the Greek stamped about the room in sheer vexation at having betrayed himself, for he could not but see that for once this simple Englishman had caught a glimpse of his real nature, hitherto so carefully concealed.