It was while I was paying him in ten-drachma notes that an acquaintance squeezed his way past our table, stooped and murmured in my ear:
“Do you know how much she gets for each bottle you pay for?”
“Haven’t the remotest,” said I, “about how much?”
“Just a matter of ten drachmas. I hope she’ll prove worth it. But that, I suppose, remains to be seen.”
He went, and, turning round to the table, I saw much to my astonishment that there were now four clean glasses on the tray the waiter had brought. Zuleika was filling them all to the brim.
“Maestro! Maestro!” she called, without turning her head. From the table behind came the man with the googly eyes. He smiled familiarly yet guardedly at us as he took the glass of champagne which Zuleika handed him. He would have spoken to us if he had not seen the hostility in Twelves’ and my eyes; but, without the slightest indication of embarrassment, our uninvited guest tossed the contents of the glass into his mouth, let them dwell there a moment, and then swallowed them with an audible gulp.
“He is my brother,” explained Zuleika, enthusiastically.
“That may be so,” said Twelves, “nevertheless, he is an extremely disagreeable person.”
And his long hand darted out like a hawk and again plunged into the flesh of her arm. He looked at her meaningly; indeed, his gaze was like a shout saying, “I want you! I want you! I want you!” She turned away from him impatiently.
“Very well, then,” she said, “but you must wait a little. When the green roses come. These are white, but round the fifth bottle there will be green.” And she spread her hands over the white roses surrounding the champagne bottle.