he could not help doing things in a theatrical way. Mr.
Dainopoulos was much nearer the mark than even he knew, when he said in
his caustic way that Evanthia imagined herself a queen. There were times
when she thought she was an empress walking down ivory staircases strewn
with slaughtered slaves. She had a way of striding to the door when she
was angry and turning suddenly upon him, her head lowered, her amber
eyes full of a lambent, vengeful glare. Mr. Dainopoulos would remain as
impassive as a dummy under this exhibition of temperament, but his
attitude was artistically correct. She might be exasperated with him,
but she really regarded him as a dummy. He represented the cowed and
terror-stricken vassal shrinking from the imperial anger. And now she
moved in a majestic way here and there in the great stone kitchen,
making black coffee and spooning out some preserved green figs into a
plated dish. This she arranged on a tray. In imagination she was a great
lady, a grand-duchess perhaps, taking refreshment to a secret lover. She
loved to figure herself in these fantastic roles, the roles she had seen
so often at the cinemas. The exaggerated gestures and graphic emotions
came naturally to a girl at once theatrical and illiterate. She walked
away with the tray in her hand, ascending the stairs as though
rehearsing an entrance, and stood stock still outside Mr. Spokesly's
door, listening.

Mr. Spokesly was listening, too. He had heard the slip-slop of the loose
slippers, the tinkle of spoon against china, and then a faint tap. He
went over to the door and pulled it open.

"You!" he said, with a thrill. He could not have said a word more just
then. She smiled and held a finger to pursed lips to enjoin silence. He
stood looking at her, hypnotized.

"Drink coffee with me?" she whispered sweetly, holding up the tray. And
then she moved on along the passage, looking back over her shoulder at
him with that smile which is as old as the world, the first finished
masterpiece of unconscious art.

She led the way to a darkened room, set the tray down, and pushed the
green shutters away, revealing a wooden balcony with chairs and a green
iron table. Below, in the hush of early morning, lay the road, and
beyond the trees and houses that followed the shore they could see the
Gulf, now streaked and splotched with green and gray and rose. The early
morning, charged with the undissipated emotions of the night, is a far
more beautiful