The judge’s tongue was untied, and he was as eloquent in praise of the elder sister as he had been reserved in telling of his love.  Perhaps this eased his mind, for to speak of her seemed almost like speaking of his sweetheart; to commend the one was to exalt the other.

“She is an angel of goodness,” he continued, “and loves her sister with all a mother’s tenderness; indeed, she has filled a mother’s place ever since the two girls were left orphans.  She has the whole care of the house, and manages it admirably; my cousin never tires of telling me that she has nowhere seen such good order, or a house so well kept.  But you must not imagine that she neglects other things for the sake of her housekeeping.  Few of our women are so well read or so widely informed.  In that respect, at least, Mr. Mitrophanis is worthy of all praise; his daughters have been carefully educated.  It is hardly his fault if the two are not equally fair to look upon; in beauty of character they are equal.  The elder also is a treasure, and happy the man that wins her.”

At first the professor listened in some astonishment to his friend’s sudden enthusiasm; then, little by little, his surprise changed to uneasiness.  He began to suspect that—­But he was not the man to conceal anything that came into his mind, and stopping abruptly in the middle of the road, he interrupted the judge’s eulogy.

“But why do you tell me all this?” he asked.  “Why do you sing her praises to me?  What do you mean—­are you trying to inveigle me into marrying her?”

Mr. Liakos was astounded.  The idea had never occurred to him; he had never thought of the professor as a marrying man.  And yet, why not?  In what was he lacking?  Wasn’t his friend the very man to become the brother-in-law he so ardently desired?  All this passed vaguely through his mind while he stood staring at Mr. Plateas, unable to find an answer to this unexpected question.  The professor continued with energy: 

“Listen, Liakos.  I owe you my life; it belongs to you.  But if you ask me to get married as a proof of my gratitude, I’d far rather go this moment back to the sea, where you saved me from death, and drown myself before your very eyes!”

The sudden heat of the professor’s speech showed that he was hurt, but whether at what the judge had just been saying about the elder sister, or at the secrecy he had shown in the matter and his studied reserve in speaking of the younger sister, was doubtful.  Probably the good man himself did not know; what he did know was that he felt hurt.  This was clear enough from what he said and the way he said it.

Mr. Liakos was offended.

“Mr. Plateas,” he replied dryly, “I have often told you—­and I repeat it now for the last time, I hope—­I have not, and I do not wish to have, any claim upon your gratitude.  As for your marrying, I assure you that I never dreamed of presenting you as a suitor, or of seeking a wife for you.  I had not the least thought of it when I spoke to you of my affairs, and I now regret having troubled you with them.”