hour than the evening. To Evanthia, however, who had
always dwelt amid scenes of extravagant natural beauty, this exquisite
sunrise, viewed as it were in violet shadow, the invisible sun tingeing
the snow of the distant peaks with delicate shell-pink and ivory-white,
the vessels in the roadstead almost translucent pearl in the mist, the
shore line a bar of solid black until it rose ominously in the sullen
headland of Karaburun--all this was nothing. To Mr. Spokesly it was a
great deal. It became to him a memory alluring and unforgettable. It was
a frame for a picture which he bore with him through the years, a
picture of himself on a balcony, listening to a girl in a yellow kimono
while she whispered and whispered and then sat back in her chair and
raised her cup to drink, looking at him over the rim of it with her
brilliant amber eyes.

"I don't know as it can be done," he muttered, shaking his head
slightly, gulping the coffee and setting the cup on the table. "Not so
easy, I'm afraid."

"_You_ can do it," she whispered imperiously.

"S'pose you get caught?" he replied cautiously. She waved a hand and
shrugged.

"_N'importe. C'est la guerre._ That don't matter. You can do it, eh?"

Mr. Spokesly rubbed his chin.

"I don't say I can and I don't say I can't. _He_ might be able to get
you down there as a passenger."

She shook her head vigorously, and leaned over the table, touching it
with her long filbert nails.

"No!" she said. "He says 'no good.' Nobody allowed to go Phyros, nobody
to Alexandria. Nobody. You understand?"

He looked at her as she leaned against the table and then his gaze
dropped to where the yellow wrap had opened so that he could see her
bosom, and he felt a dizziness as he looked away. It was characteristic
of Evanthia that she made no sudden gesture of modesty. She leaned
there, her white throat and breast lifting evenly as she breathed,
awaiting his answer.

"Yes, I understand," he answered, looking out to where the _Kalkis_ was
emerging from the distant haze. "But what I don't see is why you want to
do it."

"I want to go wis you," she whispered sharply, and he looked at her
again to find her gazing at him sternly, her finger on her lips.

And Mr. Spokesly suddenly had an inspiration. Here he was again, mewing
like a kitten for somebody to come and open the door, instead of taking
hold and mastering the situation. He took a deep breath, and lit a
cigarette. He must play up to this