“Oh, I know every island in the Ægean,” replied Caliphronas, smiling his thanks for the compliment. “I have sailed all over the Archipelago, and am quite a sailor in a small way. Lesbos, Cythera, Samos, Rhodes,—I know them all intimately; so if you are fond of ruins, and the remains of old Greece, I can show you plenty, tell you the legends, arrange about the inns, and, in fact, act as a dragoman; but, of course, without his greed for money.” “It seems worth considering.” “It will be a visit to paradise,” cried Caliphronas enthusiastically, springing to his feet. “Here you do not know the true meaning of the word beauty. Only under the blue sky, above the blue waves of the Ægean, is it to be seen. Aphrodite arose from those waters, and she was but an incarnation of the beauty which meets the eye on all sides. You have been my host in England. I will be your host in Greece, and will entertain you in my ruined abode,—misnamed a palace,—which is all that remains to me of my forefathers. Together we will sail over those laughing waters, and see the sun-kissed islands bloom on the wave. Paradise! It is the Elysian fields of foam where rest the spirits of wearied mariners. What says the song of the Greek sailors? ‘I will die! but the earth will not hold me in her breast, For the blue sea will clasp me in its arms. I will die! but let my soul not find the heaven of the orthodox. Nay, let it wander among the flowery islands, Where I can see my home and the girl who mourns me. That only is the paradise I long for.’” “You forget I do not know modern Greek,” said Maurice, smiling at the enthusiasm of the Count; “nor indeed much ancient Greek, for the matter of that. But see, Count, you have dropped a photograph.” “You can look at it,” said the Count, who had let it fall purposely; “I have no secrets.” “Oh!” “Ah, you think it a charming face?” “Charming is too weak a word. It is Aphrodite herself.” “Alas!” cried Caliphronas. with a merry laugh; “that goddess lived before the days of sun-pictures, else Apollo might have photographed her. No; that is no deity, but a mortal maiden whom I saw at Melnos. It is not bad for an amateur effort, is it?” “Oh, very good, very good!” replied Maurice hurriedly; “but the face—what a heavenly face!” “Ah, you see my paradise has got its Eve.” “And its Adam, doubtless?” “No, there is no Adam to that Eve,” said Caliphronas, shaking his head; “at least, there was not when I was in Melnos six months ago. Why should there be? You will find plenty of women as beautiful as Helena.” “Helena—is that her name? Yes, I have no doubt you will find beautiful women in Greece,—’tis their heritage from Phryne, Lais, and Aspasia; but none can be as beautiful as Helen of Troy.” “Possibly not; but that woman is Helena of Melnos, not of Troy.” “I’ll swear she is as beautiful as the wife of Menelaus, whom Paris loved.”