see her." He spoke openly to madam
now.

"Some women are queer. If she had ever really loved you, she would not
have thrown you over. I should not have complained had I been in her
place. One cannot always choose one's lot."

"It's that damned Englishman who has spoiled her."

"Ah, yes, those English! I know them."

"Did I tell you what she said about the boy?"

"Yes, my friend. But as long as you don't worry her, her words need not
worry you."

"They don't, except sometimes at night. I wake up and remember them, and
then I am afraid."

"Why do you hate the Englishman? To my mind it is lucky for both of you
that this Englishman saw her. There are not men so rich as the English,
and he is a rich Englishman. You are lucky."

"I hate him."

"Because he has stolen your wife's love?" Madam Marx, as she put
the question, laid her fat hand upon Gregorio's shoulder and laughed
confidently. The movement irritated him, but he never tried to resist
her now.

"No, not quite that. I'm used to it, and the money more than compensates
me. But I hated the man when I first saw him in the Paradise. There
was a fiddler-woman he talked to, and he could scarcely make himself
understood. He had money, and he gave her champagne and flowers. And I
was starving, and the woman was beautiful."

Madam tapped his cheek and smiled.

"The woman can't interest you now. Also you have money--his money."

"Still I hate him."

"You Greeks are like children. Your hatred is unreasonable; there is no
cause for it."

"Unreasonable and not to be reasoned away."

"Well, why worry about him? He won't follow you to Benhur, I fancy."

"It doesn't worry me generally; but when you mention him my hate springs
up again. I forget him when I am by myself."

"Forget him now."

And they drank coffee in silence.

Darkness came on, and the blue night mist. Gregorio was impatient to
see his son. He gazed intently at the door of the opposite house,
little heeding madam, who was busy with preparations for the evening's
entertainment of her customers. Suddenly he saw a woman leave the house,
hail a passing carriage, and drive rapidly down the street toward the
Place Mehemet Ali. Gregorio, with a cry of pleasure, rose and left the
cafe. Madam Marx followed him to the door and called a good-night to
him. Gregorio stood irresolutely in the middle of the road. He had
promised the boy a boat, and he blamed himself for having forgotten to
buy it. Grumbling