behave that way.

And then suddenly in upon this idyllic scene burst Evanthia, excited and
breathless.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "What shall I do?"

"Why, whatever is the matter, Evanthia? Your eyes shine like stars. Do
tell me."

Evanthia came striding in like an angry prima-donna, her hand stretched
in front of her as though about to loose a thunderbolt or a stiletto.
She flung herself down--a trick of hers, for she never seemed to hurt
herself--on the rug beside the bed and leaned her head against her
friend's hand. It was another trick of hers to exclaim: "What shall I
do? _Mon Dieu! que ferai-je?_" when she was in no doubt about what she
was going to do. She was going after her lover. She was going on board
the _Kalkis_ before she sailed, on some pretense, and she was going to
the Piraeus in her, whence she could get to Athens in a brisk walk if
necessary, and when she got there God would look after her. She had
convinced herself, by stray hints picked up from the domestics of the
departed consuls, that her lover would go to Athens. There was as much
truth in this as in the possibility of the _Kalkis_ going to Piraeus. It
was conjecture, but Evanthia wanted to believe it. She had never been in
a ship, and she could have no conception of the myriad changes of
fortune which might befall a ship in a few weeks. She might lie for
months in Phyros. With Evanthia, however, this carried no weight. God
would take care of her. It was rather disconcerting to reflect that God
did. Evanthia, all her life, never thought of anybody but herself, and
all things worked together to bring her happiness and to cast her lines
in pleasant places. Just at this time she was concentrating upon an
adventure of which the chief act was getting on board that little ship
out there. Everything, even to the clothes she was to wear, was
prepared. She had gone about it with a leisurely, silent, implacable
efficiency. And now she relieved her feelings in a burst of hysterical
affection for her dear friend who had been so kind to her and whom she
must leave. She could do this because of the extreme simplicity of her
personality. She was afflicted with none of the complex psychology which
makes the Western woman's life a farrago of intricate inhibitions. Love
was an evanescent glamour which came and passed like a cigarette, a
strain of music, a wave of furious anger. Evanthia remembered the hours,
forgetting the persons. But for that gay and spirited y