But there was no more sleep for Artemis. Though she had not a single regret, yet she felt unspeakably miserable. Her reason approved of what she had done, but her spirit revolted against it. She lived over and over again the hours she had spent between nine and midnight, torturing herself by remembering every detail.
Soon after dawn she rose, dressed, put on her hat, and went forth to buy food for Jason.
What must be, must be, and it is only the hypocritical sentimentalist who feels remorse for an act which he intends to commit again when the occasion arises. Artemis neither suffered from remorse nor indulged in it. Nor did she rail against the fate that compelled her to sell her body in order that Jason might live. In certain moods she gloried in the desecration of her body as a martyr glories in the flames that consume him.
At the end of a fortnight, the seventy-five drachmas she had earned from Onias was all but spent. Her spirits were very low. She felt weak and ill, and as she stared at her reflection in the mirror she realized for the first time that less money would come to her if she allowed herself to look jaded and ill-nourished.
Early one Sunday evening she left her lodgings, telling her husband that she was going to visit her mother who lived two miles away on the Kalamaria Road.
When she entered the café it was nearly empty, for the evening was yet young; so she sat down, ordered coffee, and waited, examining the half-dozen demireps who had already arrived. They talked at each other in hard, loud voices. Three, sitting together, sparkled with the vulgar arrogance of diamonds; they behaved as though they had just been injected with cocaine. After a glance at Artemis as she entered, they paid no further attention to her.
Customers began to drop in in couples, and by half-past eight the place was nearly full. Artemis, shrinking in a corner, glanced eagerly at each fresh face. She was looking for Onias. Perhaps she might have attracted the attention of some other man if she had tried, but Onias had wished to see her again, and he had at least treated her kindly. Besides, this evening she was full of lassitude, and too timid to seek a new customer. She would wait a little longer; if he did not come, she would go to his house.
But presently he arrived with a woman—a frail creature who looked and moved like a sulphur-coloured butterfly. Neither saw Artemis as they passed, and her heart sank. He had forgotten her. He had asked her to come again, not because he wanted her, but because he pitied her. She must nerve herself to the point of engaging the interest of a stranger. So she called for a glass of wine.
In the meantime, Onias had passed up the café with his companion; finding no vacant chairs at the far end, they retraced their steps and sat down at a table only a few yards from Artemis.
A waiter brought her wine and, as she glanced up at him, she saw that Onias’ eyes were upon her. She heard his voice.