Motioning me to a seat, and pushing toward me a box of cigarettes, he went indoors, leaving me to take in the stretch of beautiful garden in front of me, the trees of which seemed literally to be hung with gold—­for they were mainly of orange and grapefruit ranged round a spacious beautifully-kept lawn with the regularity of sumptuous decoration.  In the middle of the lawn, a little rock foundation threw up a jet of silver, falling with a tinkling murmur into a broad circular basin from which emerged the broad leaves and splendid pink blossoms of an Egyptian lotus.  Certainly it was no far-fetched allusion of my classical friend to speak of the garden of Alcinoues; particularly connected as it was in my mind with the white beach of a desert isle, and that marble statue in the moonlight.

As I sat dreaming, bathed in the golden-green light of the orange trees, and lulled by the tinkling of the fountain, my host returned with our drinks, his learned disquisition on which I will spare the reader, highly interesting and characteristic though it was.

Suffice it that it was a drink, whatever its ingredients—­and there was certainly somewhere a powerful “stick” in it—­that seemed to have been drawn from some cool grotto of the virgin earth, so thrillingly cold and invigorating it was.

While we were slowly sipping it, and smoking our cigarettes, in an unwonted pause of my friend’s fanciful verbosity, I almost jumped in my chair at the sound of a voice indoors.  It was instantly followed by a light and rapid tread, and the sound of a woman’s dress.  Then a tall beautiful young woman emerged on the loggia.

“Ah! there you are!” cried my host, as we both rose; and then turning to me, “this is my daughter—­Calypso.  Her real name I assure you—­none of my nonsense—­doesn’t she look it?  Allow me, my dear, to introduce—­Mr. Ulysses!”—­for we had not yet exchanged each other’s names....

I am a wretched actor, and I am bound to say that she proved herself no better.  For she gave a decided start as she turned those glowing eyes on me, and the lovely olive of her cheeks glowed as with submerged rose-colour.  Our embarrassment did not escape the father.

“Why you know each other already!” he exclaimed, with natural surprise.

“Not exactly,”—­I was grateful for the sudden nerve with which I was able to hasten to the relief of her lovely distress—­“but possibly Miss—­Calypso recalls as naturally as I do, our momentary meeting in Sweeney’s store, one evening.  I had no expectation, of course, that we should meet again under such pleasant circumstances as this.”

She gave me a grateful look as she took my hand, and with it—­or was it only my eager imagination?—­a shy little pressure, again as of gratitude.