was Stephanos. He mounted him behind his
saddle, and when lifting him down at the first halt, he said, "You've
done damnedo wello, Georgo". Georgo showed by a broad grin that he
felt flattered.

Lunch was ordered in the fine hotel of J. Christie, which was
upstairs over a cobbler's shop, and consisted of one very small room
which we filled, with a larger one off it, and behind was the kitchen,
only half of which was floored, and through the great gaping part you
looked down to the back of the cobbler's premises, a place full of
empty bottles and the abode of J. Christie's poultry. That was the
whole establishment, but they could cook. J. Christie, being an
Italian and not a Britisher, was an excellent _chef_, and soon
prepared for us first-rate soup, then boiled partridge which was
likely a chicken from the hole I have mentioned. Then came the dish of
the day--honey omelettes, which were brought in one at a time,
glorious creations over which we poured delicious drained honey. They
were so good that Stephen gave the order that they were to go on
turning them out till he told them to stop. Each had two big ones, and
after each you felt hungrier than ever. The wine of the country we of
course also had, one called Morea not unlike champagne. Then cheese
and Turkish coffee, after which we set off to view the village. We
landed at the school when it chanced to be play time, but we went
through the rooms followed by all the scholars, fine bright boys and
girls, and Stephen with a piece of chalk showed them some new method
of multiplication, which was far more complicated than the old way we
all know. In a hall they had two large pictures, one of Venezelos, who
they declared was good, the other of Gunariz who was bad. One little
chap was the son of the local doctor and spoke French well. He said
his father was a graduate of Paris University.

It was altogether a most enjoyable day, the padre saying it was the
day of his life. He was a good fellow the padre, and nothing delighted
him more, he remarked, than to hear Stephen saying "damn," he put so
much expression into the word.

We commenced the return journey at 4.45 when the colouring of the
mountains was perfect, and the padre always insisted on dismounting to
take a sketch of some particularly fine scene. He got ahead of us one
time when we came upon him seated on a big stone in a rough
watercourse, surrounded with oleanders and sketching a peep of a grand
mountain betw