The head vanished, and Crispin laughed uproariously. “That mahogany image is jealous, Maurice,” he said, throwing himself back in his chair. “Behold the power of love! Why, Zoe wouldn’t look at him; and if that good-looking young bo’swain comes on the scene, I’m afraid old Cyclops’ chance will be but a poor one.” “Zoe’s gone up the mountain with Helena?” “Yes; on some flower-gathering expedition. They have been absent some hours, so Caliphronas has gone to look for them.” “Confound his impudence!” “Why, you are as jealous of the mistress as Cyclops is of the maid! However, you need not be afraid, for Helena hates our Greek friend, and I shrewdly suspect she has taken an uncommon liking to you.” “Nonsense!” “It’s a fact, I assure you. Love in her eyes sits playing, so if you love her, and she loves you, no power can cut your love in two.” “Except Caliphronas.” “Yes, he is rather in the way; but I’ve no doubt Justinian will settle him. By the way, where is Justinian?” “He left me at the steps, after making me a most extraordinary proposal.” “Indeed! and this proposal?” “I’ll tell you all about it shortly. What are you doing?” “Writing to Eunice. This,” laying his hand on the letter, “is a proper epistle which might be published to all the world, and is prepared especially for the pacification of my dear mother-in-law that is to be. I, however, want you to write to our mutual friend, Mr. Carriston, and enclose a note of mine meant for the eyes of Eunice alone. The Rector is our friend, and will manage to give it to her unknown to Mrs. Dengelton.” “Oh, I will write with the greatest of pleasure, and enclose your letter. Besides, I wish to ask the Rector’s advice on a very important matter.” “I can guess what that important matter is,” said Crispin gayly; “but why not ask my advice?” “I am going to, in a few minutes. By the way, to revert to the letters, how are you going to get them posted?” “Oh, Justinian has a felucca laden with currants, silks, and what not, going to Syra to-morrow,—Syra, you know, is the great mercantile station of the Cyclades,—and these letters will go in charge of the skipper. From Syra they will easily go to England by the French packet, via Marseilles.” “Have you any other letters to write—I mean about the shipwreck?” “Of course; I have written to my solicitors, telling them all about the wreck, and instructing them to see the insurance people; but I suppose nothing can be done till I go back to town myself, and take all the survivors with me. They, I suppose, will have to give all kinds of evidence about the smash-up of The Eunice before the insurance money will be paid.” “What about Martin’s relations and the dead sailors’?”