“And what do the Spathary heirs ask?”
“Those Roumanian Greeks have no more idea of value than they have of patriotism—they are asking five thousand, and what is more I shall have to pay it.”
“Then you will sell the home of your husband’s forefathers, and pay a thousand pounds more for an inferior one?”
She banged her stick on the floor in exasperation. “I am not driving a money bargain: I am keeping a Turk from coming among us. Great Christian God, am I to permit an infidel to pass daily by my door, and to walk the street where Christian virgins dwell?”
“Why doesn’t the Bishop buy the Spathary homestead?” my father suggested.
“It isn’t big enough. It hasn’t enough ground. And it’s farther from the landing. Now, are you going to carry my message to that brutal Turk?”
“Yes, certainly. And I know that he will not be willing to buy where he is not wanted. But I am sorry that you are going to lose your own home, and pay a thousand pounds over.”
“Needn’t worry! I have enough to live on, and, as you know, all my money goes to the Educational Fund, so that I might just as well use a thousand pounds now to keep a Turk away from Christians.”
The next time we visited Aunt Kalliroë she was installed in the Spathary homestead. Just within the front door stood a small table, covered with a white linen table-cloth, such as orthodox Greek women spun themselves for the purpose of putting on the tables where the ikons were laid—table-cloths always washed by the mistress herself in a basin kept apart from the other dishes. On the table lay a Greek ikon, a brass candlestick holding three candles, all burning, and a brass incense-burner, from which a column of blue smoke was rising, filling the house with the odour of incense.