an't tell you all
about it. I laugh when she tells us all her fool notions. She thinks you
can get her on your ship and take her back to her ... yes!" Mr.
Dainopoulos was humorously hideous as he reiterated this astounding
notion on the part of Evanthia Solaris. "And when I says to her, 'Aw,
he's gone away now; won't be back for six months, maybe,' she call me a
liar. 'He'll come back,' she say to me. I want him! Ha, ha!'"

"Well," said Mr. Spokesly, looking meditatively at the immense safe.
"She's right after all, and you're wrong. I'm here, ain't I?"

"And that's why I tell you, look out. These women, they ain't like
Englishwomen, Mister."

"How?"

But Mr. Dainopoulos couldn't explain how. It is not easy to explain how.
Perhaps, if Mr. Dainopoulos had been less absorbed in making money and
had dabbled in the fine arts, he might have hit upon some adequate
comparison. He might have said, for example, that the difference was
like the difference between the rose, with its perfume and its
comprehensible thorns, and the poppy, or the hemlock or the deadly
nightshade, blooms of fatal lure and incalculable perils. Mr.
Dainopoulos knew the difference but he did not know the English for it.
He must have sensed in some way the latent danger for a man like Mr.
Spokesly, a man with much unconscious romanticism in his nature, for he
shook his head vigorously and said several times, "You look out. She'll
fix you to do something crazy. You're engaged, or I'd say, keep away
from her. But since you're engaged, well, look out, that's all. By and
by she'll forget all her fool notions and get married."

"Well," said Mr. Spokesly. "I got to get out of these clothes before I
see anybody. I'll take a walk up to see your friend the tailor. See you
later." And he walked towards Venizelos Street.

He was profoundly disturbed at this unexpected revelation of the
attitude of Evanthia Solaris. If that girl had designed to cast a spell
upon him, she could have chosen no more potent elixir than this
sublimated essence of quixotism. She wanted him to get her back to the
gay and impudent young person who had almost tweaked the noses and
pulled the beards of the serious French officers who had seen him safely
locked in the train bound north through the lines. Without being
competent to analyze his complex emotions, Mr. Spokesly was in no doubt
of their reality. He would do it. It appealed to his particularly
English ideal of chivalry, which is