Mitsos looked up at him with dumb, dry eyes and a quivering mouth.
"Forget it, too, Yanni, and tell me it will make no change between us, for, in truth, I do not know what I said."
"There, there," said Yanni, soothingly. "The thing is not, it never has been."
The hours went on slowly and silently. Mitsos said nothing, but lay in the veranda like some suffering animal that has crept away to die alone of a mortal wound, and Yanni was wise enough to leave him quite to himself, for his struggle was one that had to be wrestled out alone without help or sympathy from others. But gradually and very slowly the mist of irresolution passed away from Mitsos' brain, and he felt that he would decide one way or the other. Meantime the sun had sunk to its setting, and Yanni prepared food and took some with wine out to Mitsos.
"Eat, drink," he said. "You have not eaten since morning."
"I am not hungry," said Mitsos, listlessly.
For answer Yanni took up the glass of wine and held it to him.
"Drink it quickly, Mitsos; you are faint for something," he said, "and then I will take it and fill it again."
Mitsos obeyed like a sick child, and Yanni took the glass and brought it back full. This time he waited a moment, and then said:
"You must make up your mind, Mitsos. If you settle to do nothing, tell me, and I must think for myself."