ed.

"'The mistresses are all progressives,' she returned. 'Here is the
little garden,' and we came out upon a small place of grass and shrubs,
flanked by a pair of _kiosques_ joined by a wooden balustrade. It was
deserted, as one might expect at that hour; but Miss Sarafov remarked
that we might have coffee and rusks if I liked, and walked across the
sward to a door in a neighbouring house. I went into one of the
_kiosques_ and sat facing the calm waters of the Gulf. Facing something
else, too, which was anything but calm. For I was unable to rid myself
of a fear that when this episode was completed I should be in a very
difficult position. I should be like a man who had been struggling in
the waves, only to find himself suddenly flung up high and dry upon a
desolate and inhospitable shore, where he would in all probability
perish of privation. And then, if you like to carry the parable a little
further, this man becomes aware of a siren calling him back into the
watery tumult.... And you know, I doubted my ability to manage the
situation if I were to go back. One needs a special education, or let us
say, temperament, to deal successfully with sirens. And as Miss Sarafov
came into the _kiosque_ and sat down beside me, I felt the immediate
necessity of making my position clear. I began at once to tell her that
the events of the previous day had changed everything. I should in all
probability never come to Saloniki again. And while I felt it my duty
to see Captain Macedoine and also to return Miss Sarafov herself to her
mother, I should then go back to the ship for good.

"'And I shall never see you again,' she exclaimed, looking out across
the Gulf, in a kind of magical abstraction.

"'A small privation,' I murmured. She rose suddenly and stood by the
door of the _kiosque_, her sturdy and extraordinarily vital figure
silhouetted against the shining water.

"'Not so small,' she muttered in her hoarse contralto, 'not so small,
after what has happened.'

"'What do you want, Miss Sarafov?' I asked, sharply. 'You seem to accuse
me of a failure in friendship.'

"'What do I want?' she echoed, without turning round. 'Why do you
suppose I wanted Artemisia to send for you and go to England? Because
she was going to take me, too.'

"'Take you, too?' I said, feebly.

"'Sure!' she shrilled, turning round, 'to live with her. She hadn't a
friend in the world to turn to and she'd have gone crazy living alone in
England while