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Nearby was the large black hull of an African ship, bound for Alexandria. Dion pointed to it. "Suppose we were on that this minute," he said to Daphne, and Daphne covered her eyes and shook with horror at the mere thought of it. It was nearly night when the three weary wanderers climbed the last hill and turned from the roadway into the path which led to the old farm-house.
"Excellent, my son!" exclaimed Thyone, laughing, and Daphne remarked that the poet Cleon had surprised her father with such a poem a few weeks before. It was a marvellous bit of botchwork, and yet there was a certain meaning in the production, compiled solely from Homeric verses.
But in the dead of night Daphne sat up in bed, looking at the face and head of her husband beside her on the pillow. He lay peacefully sleeping, the noble outline of brow and features still nobler in the dim light which effaced all the weaker, emptier touches.
Daphne Wing, still motionless in the centre of her little crowded dressing-room said, in a matter-of-fact voice: "You are polite, aren't you? It's funny; I can't tell whether I'm glad to see you. I had a bad time, you know; and Mrs. Fiorsen was an angel. Why do you come to see me now?" Exactly! Why had he come?
In extreme disgust at the loss of the notorious Black Venus Captain Vernon reluctantly gave orders for the resumption of the cruise, and the Daphne was once more headed in for the land, it being the skipper's intention to give a look in at all the likely places along the coast as far north as the Bight of Benin. This was terribly tedious and particularly trying to the men, it being all boat work.
Daphne named an under-secretary an agreeable and ambitious man, who had been very much in her train during the preceding winter, and until Roger Barnes appeared upon the scene. "I thought until I got your message that you were going to take Mr. Barnes motoring up the river." "Mr. Barnes was engaged."
She had certainly shown no precocious coquetry and disquieting instincts; she had had no equivocal cousinly relationships, when if the bridle is left on their neck at all, and one of them has learned at school what love is, the two big children yield to the fatal law of sex, and begin the inevitable eclogue of Daphne and Chole over again. However, Oh!
There was Daphne, too, who disdained the love of Apollo himself, and would never listen to a word of his suit, but fled like Syrinx, and prayed like Syrinx for escape; but Daphne was changed into a fair laurel-tree, held sacred by Apollo forever after. All these maidens were as untamed and free of heart as the wild creatures they loved to hunt, and whoever molested them did so at his peril.
Just go to the Villa Borghese to see the group of Apollo and Daphne which Bernini executed when he was eighteen,* and in particular see his statue of Santa Teresa in ecstasy at Santa Maria della Vittoria! Ah! that Santa Teresa!
The fame which Hermon had won by great genius and ability had gratified him more than he expressed, and he could not contradict Daphne when she asserted that, in spite of the aimless life of pleasure to which he devoted himself, he had remained the kind-hearted, noble man he had always been.
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