“You! Mrs. Dengelton wants Eunice to marry you.” “There’s always two to a bargain,” said Maurice grimly. “I don’t want to marry Eunice.” “Oh, you don’t love her?” “As a cousin, yes; as a possible wife, no.” “Then there is some chance for me?” “I should say there was every chance for you,” remarked Roylands in a friendly manner. “You are young and famous, you know every one, you go everywhere, you are the adored of the gentle sex; so what more can Eunice or her mother desire.” “Eunice desires nothing—except myself; but as for Mrs. Dengelton, she thinks I am poor.” “Oh! and are you poor?” “No; on the contrary, I am very well off.” “Then why don’t you place all your perfections before my dear aunt, and persuade her into consenting to the match.” “I don’t want to do so—yet,” said Crispin, with some hesitation. “Why all this mystery?” “I cannot tell you just now, but you may be certain there is nothing wrong about the mystery. I will satisfy Mrs. Dengelton on all points shortly, and then, perhaps, I will have the felicity of being your cousin-in-law.” “I wish you good luck.” “You would not object to my marrying your cousin?” asked Crispin timidly. “I?” said Maurice in amazement. “Certainly not! I believe in love matches; but, of course,—though I have but little to say in the matter,—I would like to know who you are, where you come from, and all that, before you become the husband of Eunice.” “I will explain everything to your satisfaction—shortly.” “The sooner the better for your own sake.” “I don’t understand you,” said Crispin, with some hauteur. “I mean as regards Eunice,” explained Maurice quickly. “If you don’t tell my aunt of your intentions, and put yourself right as regards money and position in her eyes, she will marry Eunice to some one else. Failing me,—and I have not the slightest intention of marrying my dear cousin,—she will angle for another rich man, who will probably not be so blind to the charms of Eunice as I am. In that case, my poor Crispin, I am afraid it will be all up with you.” “What you say is very true,” replied Crispin reflectively. “I will speak to Mrs. Dengelton before I leave the Grange.” “I cannot understand what you are making all this mystery about.” “Because I am proud,” rejoined the poet, with a flush on his dark cheek. “I cannot explain myself now, but I will some day, and then you will see I have a good reason for my reticence.” “So be it. But at present you are a riddle.” “Well, I suppose I am,” said Crispin smilingly; “but one which will shortly be explained, and, like all riddles, turn out to be very disappointing. By the way, you might offer me one of those excellent cigarettes.” “Certainly,” answered Maurice, holding out his open case. “Unlike Caliphronas, you are fond of smoking.” “Caliphronas! Who is he? what is it? man, woman, or child, or something to eat?” “The first—a Greek. Count Constantine Caliphronas.”