“Paris came to Helen when Earth was younger; He was handsomest of men, She was fairest woman then; And love’s hunger Made them long to run away, Which they did one pleasant day— So, at least, does Homer say— Scandal-monger! Helen comes to Paris now Earth is older. But no love shines on her brow, Nor breaks she a marriage-vow, Love is colder. She but comes for triumphs here, Dressed by Worth in costumes dear, Lets existence gay _pour rire_ Lightly mould her. Yet if Paris, town of joy, Holds a Paris, Charming as the Trojan boy, Life is bliss without alloy; There no bar is To indulge in love once more; So with Paris, as of yore, Flies she as she fled before, But she marries.” “Oh, ‘Roses of Shiraz!’” sighed Maurice comically, “what would your admirers say if they heard such _vers de société_?” “Improvisation is hardly serious work!” retorted Crispin coolly, drinking his wine. “And your sentiments!” cried Caliphronas in mock horror. “You have made Helen prim.” “’Tis in keeping with this virtuous century.” “For my part,” said Helena of Melnos playfully, “I think your modern reading of the story is charming. Crispin, I appoint you my poet laureate.” “And my wages?” “A wreath of artificial laurels, for, indeed, your song is but worthy of such.” “Cruel! And I always thought you so soft-hearted.” “Never judge by outward appearances,” said Helena, rising from her seat. “I am as hard-hearted as papa—on occasions.” “I hope not on all occasions?” observed Caliphronas, with emphasis. “Entirely depends upon the situation. To you, now, I could refuse nothing—if I were inclined to grant your request.”