‘Why, indeed, Plantagenet,’ replied Venetia, ’I was very unwell when George visited us; but I really have quite forgotten that I ever was an invalid, and I never mean to be again.’

‘"Plantagenet!"’ soliloquised Herbert.  ’And this is the great poet of whom I have heard so much!  My daughter is tolerably familiar with him.’

‘I have brought you all sorts of buffooneries from Stamboul,’ continued Cadurcis; ’sweetmeats, and slippers, and shawls, and daggers worn only by sultanas, and with which, if necessary, they can keep “the harem’s lord” in order.  I meant to have sent them with George to England, for really I did not anticipate our meeting here.’

‘"Sweetmeats and slippers,"’ said Herbert to himself, ’"shawls and daggers!” What next?’

‘And has George been with you all the time?’ inquired Venetia.

’Oh! we quarrelled now and then, of course.  He found Athens dull, and would stay at Constantinople, chained by the charms of a fair Perote, to whom he wanted me to write sonnets in his name.  I would not, because I thought it immoral.  But, on the whole, we got on very well; a sort of Pylades and Orestes, I assure you; we never absolutely fought.’

‘Come, come,’ said George, ’Cadurcis is always ashamed of being amiable.  We were together much more than I ever intended or anticipated.  You know mine was a sporting tour; and therefore, of course, we were sometimes separated.  But he was exceedingly popular with all parties, especially the Turks, whom he rewarded for their courtesy by writing odes to the Greeks to stir them up to revolt.’

‘Well, they never read them,’ said Cadurcis.  ’All we, poor fellows, can do,’ he added, turning to Herbert, ’is to wake the Hellenistic raptures of May Fair; and that they call fame; as much like fame as a toadstool is like a truffle.’

‘Nevertheless, I hope the muse has not slumbered,’ said Herbert; ’for you have had the happiest inspiration in the climes in which you have resided; not only are they essentially poetic, but they offer a virgin vein.’

‘I have written a little,’ replied Cadurcis; ’I will give it you, if you like, some day to turn over.  Yours is the only opinion that I really care for.  I have no great idea of the poetry; but I am very strong in my costume.  I feel very confident about that.  I fancy I know how to hit off a pasha, or touch in a Greek pirate now.  As for all the things I wrote in England, I really am ashamed of them.  I got up my orientalism from books, and sultans and sultanas at masquerades,’ he added, archly.  ’I remember I made my heroines always wear turbans; only conceive my horror when I found that a Turkish woman would as soon think of putting my hat on as a turban, and that it was an article of dress entirely confined to a Bond Street milliner.’