“No,” answered Caliphronas carelessly; “oddly enough, I do not care much for flesh. I live so much in the open air that, like Nature, I live on the simplest things. Bread, cheese, and wine I love; add honey, and I want nothing better to satisfy my appetite. Country fare for a country man, you know.”
“You are a shepherd of Theocritus,” said Maurice, with a smile.
“No; save in such tastes perhaps; otherwise I am no Sicilian of the Idylles.”
“You speak English wonderfully well, Count,” remarked the Rector politely.
“Thank you for the compliment, sir; yet it is the first time I have been in England.”
“What! do they teach English in the schools of Athens?”
“Alas, no. The schools of modern Athens are not those of the old Greek days. Socrates, Plato, Pythagoras, have gone to the blessed isles in company with the heroes of Salamis, and our Greek culture of to-day is primitive in the extreme. No; I learned English from a roving Englishman—a scholar and a gentleman who grew weary of this respectable England of yours, and came back to the freer life of the Greek islands.”
“He taught you admirably,” said Roylands, wondering why the Greek eyed him so keenly while making this speech. “Do you come from Athens?”
“I have been there,” answered Caliphronas, pushing away his plate, “but I am an islander. Yes, I was born in Ithaca, therefore am I a countryman of Ulysses.”
“Achilles, perhaps,” observed the Rector, fascinated by the clear-cut features of the young man,—“the godlike Achilles.”
“Ah no,” replied the Greek, with a shade of melancholy in his tone; “I am like no hero of those times. Our ancestors have transmitted to us their physical forms, but not their brains, not their heroism.”
“Come now,” remonstrated Maurice. “I am sure your countrymen behaved bravely in the War of Independence.”
“Yes, I agree with you there. Canaris, Mavrocordato, Botzaris, were all brave men. I accept the rebuke, for I have no right to run down my own countrymen. Perhaps in England I may learn the meaning of the word patriotism.”
“Your pardon?” queried the Count, a trifled puzzled.
“Jingoism,” explained Maurice gravely, “is a spurious patriotism, composed of music-hall songs, the Union Jack, and gallons of beer—it begins with a chorus and ends with a riot. Tom, Dick, and Harry are very fond of it, as it expands their lungs and quenches their thirst. But there, I am only jesting. Do you stay long in England?”