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s. And so on. "No, I kept my romantic behaviour to myself. Jack would not understand my interest in 'that gel.' Before we left Cardiff I had written to the _Rue Paleologue_ to say that we were on our way, and gave the probable date of our arrival. And while we were on our way I turned over in my mind my reasons for writing to the _Rue Paleologue_. Middle age demands reasons. Well, I was hungry for sensations. In my youth I had a great ambition to seek adventure. Fate took me into a world of machine-belts, harsh language, and industrial dullness. I escaped from that into sea-life believing that I should find adventure. The greatest mistake imaginable! But I realized that it was not adventure I really craved after all--only sensations. A difficult case to prescribe for, I admit. One has to train oneself to perceive, to become aware of their proximity. I suppose this really is what used to pass as culture--the adventures of one's soul among the doubtful masterpieces which throng the dusty junk-shop we call the World. I played with the notion that in the _Rue Paleologue_ I might come upon an authentic piece. "I confess, though, that I had a certain diffidence about going ashore and calling, as we say, in a perfectly normal manner, upon Captain Macedoine. I really felt I had not sufficient excuse. And when we were able to go ashore, and I stepped across what is now satirically known as the _Place de la Liberte_, I compromised. I went into the _Odeon_, a lofty cafe on the corner, to have a drink and come to a decision. It was full. At the far end a big burly individual in a frock coat and a fez, with a silver star on his breast, was standing on a chair and delivering a harangue. A patriot. Waiters rushed to and fro bearing trays loaded with glasses. The murmur of conversation rose and fell around me. Here and there among the excited proletariat sat dignified old gentlemen with drooping moustaches sipping mastic, munching caviar sandwiches, and reading newspapers. And while I was rolling a cigarette I caught sight, at a corner table, of a familiar figure, a figure in a short shabby overcoat with a fur collar and a fur cap on his head, writing rapidly on a large sheet of the cafe paper. It was M. Nikitos, the lieutenant of the Anglo-Hellenic Development Company. I had forgotten him, to tell the truth. Artemisia gave me the impression that he had dropped out of consideration. I was mistaken, it appears. He had not forgotten me
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