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