I knew my father did not like to be disturbed in the morning, but I knew also that there was not a human being who did not obey Aunt Kalliroë, so I went and fetched my father.
“Nephew!” she cried, without any greeting, as soon as she saw him, “I will not countenance it—I will not tolerate it! He must be made to understand the impossibility of his desire.”
My father sat down by her, took her silk-mittened hand, and kissed the fingers.
“Now just tell me who is ‘he.’”
Aunt Kalliroë looked at my father with disgusted surprise.
“Nephew, are you living at the North Pole, and not in Turkey? Baky Pasha, of course.”
She flung the name as if it were a bomb, and waited for it to explode. My father took the matter calmly.
“What has he done?” he inquired.
“Nephew, what is the matter with you? Don’t you know?”
My father shook his head. “Tell me,” he begged.