bolt of wrath. The gesture was as
antique as it was involuntary. One heard drums muttering and the
gathering of fierce AEgean winds as she came on, and leaning forward,
flung out both hands in a passionate revelation of sorrow. Mr. Spokesly
sat down again, embarrassed and fascinated. He could not take his eyes
from her. She was something new in his experience; a woman with passion
and the power to express it. Such women are almost non-existent in
England, where sentiment is regarded as legal tender for passion. He
regarded her with a kind of stupefaction, as though he had never set his
eyes on a woman before. One might say with approximate truth that he had
not. His ways had lain among the artificial products of his age. In
trepidation he realized, as he sat there watching the movements of this
girl, that he would not know what to do with a woman like that. He sat
there and listened.

"Gone?" repeated Mrs. Dainopoulos.

"Yes, they are all gone. The French sent soldiers. And they would not
let me go to speak to him."

"But where will they go?"

The girl, whose eyes were bent upon the carpet at her feet, shrugged her
shoulders violently.

"Who knows that? To Sofia; or to Constantinople. Oh, I would have gone,
too. These pigs, pigs, pigs of French! Not a word! And he is gone!" She
dragged a chair from the table, and sat down suddenly, thrusting her
chin over her arm and staring at the floor. There was a moment's
silence, while Mr. Spokesly sat in doubt and Mrs. Dainopoulos looked out
over the Gulf.

"Gone!" muttered the girl again sullenly.

"Don't do that, dear. It is very bad for you when you get in such
rages!" Mrs. Dainopoulos spoke in a soft cool tone, like a recumbent
sybil whose knowledge of rage and sorrow was vast. The girl's foot swung
to and fro more and more rapidly, the red Turkish slipper slapping the
floor, "You will hear from him after a little."

"Ah, if they let him write. But these French! With their beards and hats
like cooking pots! They see everything. Of course he will write, but
that is no good. He cannot send anything."

An expression of disappointment crossed the other woman's face as she
patted the girl's shoulder.

"Wait a little," she said. "You can't tell yet."

"I would have given a thousand drachma to have got to the train," said
the girl moodily. "And I would give a million to get to Constantinople.
This place stifles me. I hate it ... hate it."

She stood up suddenly, raisi