elf now as well as
ashamed. He wandered up and down the square, looking at the statue of
the great khedive, silhouetted against the moonlight, and cursed at his
misfortunes.

Why should he, Gregorio Livadas, be in need of money? He had worked
hard, but without success. He could have borne his ill luck had he alone
been the sufferer, but he must consider his child--and, of course, his
wife too. He was really fond of his wife in a way. But he smiled proudly
as he thought of his son, for whom he schemed out a great future. He and
Xantippe would train the boy so carefully that he would grow up to be
a great man, and, what was more, a rich man. How they would laugh,
all three, as they sat in the splendid cafes over their wine, at the
hardships the father had endured! Still he must not forget the present,
and he sorely needed money. He would go to Amos again. Amos was a rich
man, very rich, and a filthy Jew. Amos could easily spare him some money
and renew the last loan. He was going to be successful now and would
be able to pay good interest. What better investment could Amos have?
Surely none. He was going to set up a cafe with the money at Tanta, or
Zagazig, or even Benhur,--yes, Benhur was the best,--where there were
few competitors. Then he would make a fortune, as other Greeks had done,
and Amos would be paid in full. He was not extravagant, no; he had the
business instincts of his race. Half these rich merchants of Alexandria
had begun as he would begin; he would succeed as they had succeeded. The
future was really hopeful, if he could only borrow a little capital.

With these thoughts surging through his brain Gregorio paced up and down
the pavements. At last he turned into the Rue des Soeurs and started
slowly toward his home.

This street, the sink of Alexandria, was at its gayest. The cafes where
cheap liquor is sold were crowded. Soldiers and sailors, natives and the
riffraff of half a dozen nations, jostled one another. The twanging of
guitars and the tinkling of pianos was heard from every house. Women,
underclothed and overpainted, leaned from the upper windows and made
frequent sallies into the street to capture their prey. Loud voices sang
lusty English choruses and French chansonnettes, and Neapolitan songs
tried to assert themselves whenever the uproar ceased for a moment.
Every one talked his, or her, own tongue, and gesture filled in the gaps
when words were wanting. All seemed determined to degrade the