“Infinitely worse,” said Eunice, who at this moment joined them with Crispin: “fog, snow, rain, hail, mist—oh, you don’t know the capabilities of the English climate!” “I am glad I am going away,” observed Caliphronas, with a sigh of relief; “this place would kill me. Gray skies, small cultivated landscapes, ugly cities, sad-looking men and women. Oh, great saints! what do you know of life or pleasure?” “I assure you, my dear Count,” began Mrs. Dengelton sweetly, “that in the season”— “What is the season?” “The London season, which begins in May.” “Oh, that is what I have seen. Up all night, tired all day, crowded rooms, unhealthy dinners, plenty of talk about nothing, and no rest—is that what you call the season? is that what you term life? St. Theodore! let me go back to Greece, there at least I can live.” “But Greece is not like London,” said Crispin, with the intention of provoking the Greek. “No, thank the saints, it is not, as you know well, Mr. Crispin; there, at least, are fresh air, laughing seas, wide plains, lofty mountains—one can breathe there—one can live and delight in living, but here—oh, pardon me, I cannot talk of it. I must go to Mr. Maurice for the Endymion, and I am glad I leave your dull grayness soon.” When Caliphronas with this parting shot had vanished, Mrs. Dengelton turned to Crispin with a pitying smile. “What an impulsive creature, is he not, Mr. Crispin? To talk about such barbaric lands, and call existence there life! Ah, he does not know what enjoyment is.” “I think he does in his own way,” replied Crispin dryly, thinking of the difference between the free, open-air existence of the one, and the narrow, petty life of the other. “Well, of course, you know a blind man never misses color because he does not know what he loses,” said the lady apologetically. “That poor dear Count is in exactly the same plight. Eunice, my dear, I wish you would go and write that letter to Lady Danvers at once. I want it to catch the noonday post. We go to Lady Danvers when we leave here,” she added, as Eunice left the room. “For my part, I would have been glad to stay here till the autumn, but dear Maurice has been ordered abroad for his health.” “Yes, I know he is going,” said Crispin coolly; “he is coming with me.” “Coming with you?” repeated Mrs. Dengelton, indignantly, wondering at the presumption of this, as she thought, poor poet. “Yes,” replied Crispin equably, as he prepared to startle the lady; “he is going to the East in my yacht.” “Your yacht!” gasped Mrs. Dengelton, in the same tones in which she would have said, “Your throne!” “I did not know you—you”— “Were rich enough to possess one,” said Crispin dryly, seeing the lady hesitated. “Oh, I have had a yacht for many years. I hope you and Miss Dengelton will do me the favor of coming a cruise in her some day.”