e were passing up a
rather narrow and smelly street where donkeys, with immense panniers of
vegetables, were continually fouling each other, and then pausing with
infuriating composure while their fezzed proprietors wrenched them
apart. And I remember Mr. Tonderbeg insinuating himself past them in a
manner perfectly decorous and suitable in a foreigner among natives, yet
accompanied by an expression on his blond features which seemed to
betray a regretfully low estimate of a population deficient in the
ability to improve themselves and cultivate fine ideas. I say I remember
this because the next time I looked at him his expression had changed.
He had flushed to a dark terra-cotta, his eyes were cast down, and his
mouth was curled into an extraordinary and complex sneer and grin. 'Des
women!' he said, hoarsely. 'They won't let you alone. Impudent pieces!'
And he stopped at a fish stall. I was going to ask him what he was
talking about when I saw what had outraged his modesty. It was Pollyni
Sarafov, a big basket in her hand, standing in front of a booth on the
further side of the market and waving to attract my attention. I gave
Mr. Tonderbeg a glance as I left him, abandoned him. He did not see me.
He was still standing at the fish stall examining a number of loathsome
cuttle fish who were regarding him with a fixed and terrible stare from
among their many arms. I went straight over to the girl.

"Mind, I don't blame Mr. Tonderbeg very much. There was something about
that girl which would give a man like him all sorts of alarming
thoughts. She would not elevate him. She was the negation of
respectability. Her shining bronze hair was tied up in a scarf of blue
silk, her cotton dress was shockingly short, and her feet were shod with
a pair of old Turkish slippers. And her basket contained a miscellaneous
assortment of esoteric comestibles which would later appear in an
astonishingly appetizing form at the table. She greeted me with a naive
delight, a tacit confidence that I shared her view of the situation, and
had managed to meet her by some tremendous _tour-de-force_ of romantic
intuition.

"'And who's that man?' she demanded, nodding toward the respectable
Tonderbeg. I looked at him. He was sidling along the booths, followed by
an impassive seaman with a neatly rolled sack under his arm, and he was
glancing stealthily in our direction, his features almost dark with
shame.

"'That's our steward,' I told her. 'He does