Half drunk and full of vanity, the man of mixed blood—George Georges was his fantastic name—plunged out of the Olympos Hotel and bawled for a gharry. At his command three came. His great, hulking body sank into the first and bent its crazy framework into a capital U.
The city had just lit its myriad lights, and the sky was like purple velvet. Georges gave it a contemptuous glance, and as the driver turned round for orders, his temporary master waved a fat hand in the air and grunted:
“Anywhere! Take me out of this damned hole!”
But which damned hole he meant the driver did not know, for Georges’ gesture embraced the universe. The gharry jolted and swayed along the quay and, turning to the left, entered a semi-suburban region of large houses, evil smells, and gutter children. It was dark here, and Georges hated darkness.
“Take me out of this damned hole as well,” he shouted.
And in a minute they emerged into Rue Egnatia and passed the Baths. Georges had a thought.
“I’ll get washed,” said he. “And after that,” he added, for he was a man of some education and humour, “I will stay me with flagons and comfort myself with apples.”
So he stopped the gharry, alighted, and, paying his driver rather regally, turned to the Baths.
He arrived at the precise moment when Aristides Kronothos, having decided that further custom that night was most improbable, was about to discard his towel-robe and don his ordinary garments. In those dim Baths he saw his enemy and recognized him, and, shrinking behind a pillar, said in a high-pitched assumed voice:
“Perhaps His Highness will take a room on the right.”