. A provocative, positive
sort of man. There was, if you will excuse the simile, something
antiseptic in his character. I could have driven about and talked to him
all day. He was charged with sane opinions on life. Humorous, too. When
I suggested that Captain Macedoine might not survive his daughter's
death, he made the whimsical remark that illusions of grandeur act like
an anaesthetic upon the patient's emotions. And I shall not forget the
last remark he uttered as I stood beside his carriage to say farewell.
The red roofs and domes of the city stretched away below us and I could
see the smoke coming over the warehouse from the _Manola's_ funnel. He
had promised to do certain things for me. If you climb up some day to
the Protestant cemetery you will find out what some of those things
were. And he was good enough to express a hope that I might come to
Saloniki again. I replied that I had profited immensely by his
conversation and he nodded, saying:

"'Yes, that's right. But what you really need, you know, is what
old-fashioned people in England call the consolation of religion.'

"'That is a novel prescription for a doctor,' I retorted.

"'Perhaps it is,' he admitted, holding out his hand, 'but depend upon
it, nothing else will do.'

"'You know the usual stereotyped advice is to get married?'

"'You would still need the consolation of religion,' he remarked, dryly.
'No, the fact is, real love is too uncertain, too uncommon.'

"'Surely,' I protested.

"'A fact,' he insisted, simply. 'I once picked up the works of a young
Arab poetess who afterward slew herself in her lover's arms. And the
burden of all her songs was that the only logical culmination of love,
if it be genuine, is death. I offer you that for your Western mind to
ponder. Good-bye and good luck.'

"And there I was," said Mr. Spenlove, lighting a fresh cigarette, "with
a whole brand-new set of consolatory impressions to brood upon, left to
pursue my way back to the ship and take up a safe and humdrum existence
once more. The episode was over, and it would be unwise to try and make
it anything else. And I had been presented with a novel and extremely
impracticable test of love which preoccupied by its stark beauty. I had
the sudden fancy, as I climbed the ruined wall that runs down from the
Citadel and started to thread the narrow streets toward the port, of
that Arab poetess, buried in a fragrant and silent garden among
cypresses, and her lover, w