Mr. Liakos sat down again, blushing furiously while the professor in utter stupefaction made the sign of the cross.

“Kyrie Eleison!” said he.  “Then all this ado was for Mr. Mitrophanis and his daughters?”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the judge, in a voice that betrayed his agitation.  “I did not want them to think that we were talking about them.”

“Bless my soul!  You don’t mean to say you’re in love?”

“Ah, yes.  I love her with all my heart!” Mr. Liakos turned once more, and his eyes followed one of the two girls.

The professor had listened with some uneasiness.  While touched by the judge’s emotion, he was at the same time perhaps a little jealous of its cause; he was surprised that his friend had never spoken of this love, and vexed with himself that he had not divined it.  But all these ideas were so hazy that he could hardly have expressed them.

After a few moments’ silence, and while the judge’s passionate avowal still lingered in his ears, he asked naively, and without stopping to think: 

“Which one?”

Mr. Liakos looked at the professor in astonishment, and although he did not speak, the expression of his face said plainly, “Can you ask?”

Mr. Plateas clapped his hand to his forehead.

“Where were my wits!” he cried.  “Excuse me, my dear friend; but seeing only their backs, as I did a moment ago, I couldn’t tell one from the other; and I had forgotten that the elder sister’s face would scarcely inspire love.  But the younger—­she is charming!”

The judge listened without reply.

“Do you know,” the professor went on, at last unburdening his mind, “I don’t understand how you could be in love, and not tell me about it; how you could hide your feelings from your friend!  If it had been I, you wouldn’t have been spared a single sigh!” And his chest gave forth an “Ah” which he tried to render amorous.  This sigh, or perhaps the mere idea of the professor in love, brought a smile to the judge’s clouded face.

“Why haven’t you ever spoken to me about it?” continued Mr. Plateas.

“Because I did not wish to bore you,” replied Mr. Liakos.  Then, touched by his friend’s reproachful look, he made haste to add, “But now I will tell you everything, since you desire it.”

Still he was silent, as if he hardly knew how to begin.  The professor shivered again, and seeing that the sun had gone down behind the mountains, said: 

“Hadn’t we better talk about this on the way home, or at my house?  It’s time to go in.”

The two men rose, and started toward the city.

What desponding lover has not yearned to pour out his heart to some friend?  Even reverence for the purity of his feeling will not restrain him.  He tries to guard the mystery of his love as in a holy sanctuary; he would not expose it to unrevering eyes; he hesitates, he delays,—­ but sooner or later his heart will overflow, and he must have a confidant.