ally a large
placard was displayed which informed the audience that "_A cause du
tapage le spectacle est fini_," and the curtain descended. They went out
into the gardens, Evanthia holding his arm and taking short prinking
little steps. Why had she wanted to go to such a place? He was obliged
to admit she hardly seemed aware of the existence of the people around
her. She sat there sipping her beer, smiling divinely when she caught
his eye, yet with an air of invincible abstraction, as though under some
enchantment. Mr. Spokesly was puzzled, as he would always be puzzled
about women. Even his robust estimate of his own qualification as a male
was not sufficient to explain the sudden mysterious change in Evanthia
Solaris. Was she afraid, she who gave one the impression of being afraid
of nothing? But Mr. Spokesly was not qualified to comprehend a woman's
moods. His destiny, his function, precluded it. He never completely
grasped the fact that women, being realists, see love as it really is,
and are shocked back into a world of ideal emotions where they can
experiment without imperilling their sense of daintiness and vestal
dedication to a god. And Evanthia Solaris was experimenting now. Her
_liaison_ with the gay and debonair creature who had journeyed out of
Saloniki that night with the departing consuls had been an inspiration
to her to speculate upon the ultimate possibilities of emotional
development. Just now she was quiet, as a spinning top is quiet, her
thoughts, her conjectures, merely revolving at high speed. With the
quickness of instinct she had admitted this friend of Mrs. Dainopoulos
to a charming and delicate comradeship committing her to nothing. That
he should love, of course, went without saying. She was debating,
however, and revolving in her shrewd and capable brain, how to use him.
And it gave her that air of diffident shyness blended with saucy courage
which made him feel, now he was soberly eating his tea on board the
_Tanganyika_, outward bound, that she was a sorceress who had thrown an
enchantment about him. And he wanted, impossible as he knew it to be, to
go back there and resign himself again to the enchantment, closing his
eyes, and leaving the _denouement_ to chance. No doubt the novelty of
such a course appealed to him, for he came of a race whose history is
one long war against enchantments and the poisonous fumes of chance. He
went on stolidly eating his tea, substantial British provender, p