In spite of his passion for Helena, which should have made him delight in these praises of her beauty, Maurice did not pay much attention to Crispin’s speech, as he was thinking deeply, and the current of his thoughts was indicated by his next remark. “Crispin, you said Caliphronas was merely a chance acquaintance you met at Athens; but, as far as I can judge from the hints you drop, I believe you know him very well.” “That is the real truth,” replied Crispin, without flinching. “I did meet this Greek at Athens, but I knew him before that—in Melnos. Oh, I can tell you many things which would astonish you, but I cannot do so yet.” “Why not?” “Because I have strong reasons for such reticence,” said the poet coldly; “either trust me in all or not at all. This journey you are undertaking means more than you think, but I will not fail you, and as long as I am by your side you will take no hurt.” “Are we in the Middle Ages? Is Caliphronas a freebooter, that you talk as if I were in danger?” “I will explain all some day, and you will be rather astonished at my story.” “I suppose there is nothing wrong in your story?” “No. When I tell all about myself and my past life, I think it will satisfy not only you—but Mrs. Dengelton.” “It is on her account that I made that rather rude remark, for, unless you can prove your name, your position, and your income to be satisfactory, she will never consent to your marriage with Eunice.” “As to my name,” said Crispin, coloring a little at such plain speaking, “I hope to prove that spotless, my position will be beyond reproach, and my income is larger than your own.” “You are wealthy, then?” “I am certainly well off, and I will give you my story at some later date, but at present I will answer no more of your questions.” “And Mrs. Dengelton?” “I am going to speak to her to-morrow morning, so as to put things right before I leave England. Oh, I am not afraid of being absent. Eunice loves me, and will be true, while as to her mother, I can win that lady on to my side, and will do so to-morrow.” “You are an enigma, Crispin.” “I am; but, as I said before, I can explain myself to your satisfaction, and intend doing so when I consider it wise. But you must trust me.” “I do trust you.” “I am afraid you ask too many questions for absolute trust,” said the poet dryly, relighting his pipe. “I will ask you no more—save one.” “Well?” “Is Caliphronas to be trusted?” “As long as I am with you, yes.” “Ah, you have some power over him?” “Now you are asking questions again.” “I beg your pardon; but do tell me about Caliphronas!” Crispin paused for a moment, as if to consider how he would reply to this remark.