“You are Mr. Roylands,” she said in English, with a delicate sweetness in her voice that seemed to shame the notes of the nightingale, at least, Maurice thought so; but then, in his amazement, he was scarcely capable of cool reflection. “Yes, I am Maurice Roylands,” he replied, taking both her outstretched hands within his own; “and you are Helena.” “I am Helena,” she repeated gravely, drawing him a little to the left, so that the moonlight fell on his face. “You can have no idea how anxious I was to see you, Mr. Roylands. I do so love to see one of my countrymen.” “Are you English?” “Yes,” said Helena proudly, dropping his hands, much to his regret; “my father is English, so I am also, although my mother was a Greek. Still, I have spoken your language all my life, and have been brought up like an English girl, so I must be English.” She spoke in a tone of such conviction that Maurice began to laugh, in which merriment she joined freely. “My father would not tell me anything about you,” she resumed gayly; “and as you are the first Englishman that has come to Melnos, I was anxious to see what you were like.” “I hope your anxiety has been repaid,” observed Maurice, with a smile. “Oh, indeed it has. You are very good-looking, especially when you smile.” Roylands was rather taken aback by this naïveté, and, being unaccustomed to such direct compliments, blushed like a girl, much to the amusement of Helena, who stood looking at him with clear, truthful eyes. “Do you not like me saying that?” she observed innocently. “Andros always likes to be told he’s good-looking.” “Well, I am not so conceited as Andros—at least, I trust I am not,” answered Maurice, quite touched by her rustic innocence; “but, you know, ladies in England do not speak so—so—very plainly.” “Do they not? Why, do they tell their friends they are ugly?” Maurice roared in spite of her presence, upon which she looked at him rather reproachfully. “It is too bad of you to laugh at me, Mr. Roylands,” she said pettishly; “you can’t expect me to be like an English lady after living all my life at Melnos.” “You are much more charming than any English lady I know.” A charming smile dimpled the corners of her mouth. “Really! Ah, I see it is the custom for the gentlemen to pay compliments to the ladies, not the other way about. I must not tell you you are good-looking, but it is quite proper for you to say I am charming.” “Well—that is—really, you know, I hardly know what to say,” said Maurice, finding himself somewhat in a dilemma. “The fact is, neither English men nor women pay each other compliments at all—at least, it’s not supposed to be good form.” “What is good form?” asked Helena innocently. “I must undertake your education, Miss Justinian.” “I am not Miss Justinian. You must call me Helena.” “Oh, is that so? then you must know, Helena, I am not Mr. Roylands—you must call me Maurice.”