“Just opposite,—the Grande Bretagne.”
Constantine rose with an undefined purpose, and Agiropoulos, lazily sauntering across the square, nodded and placed an arresting hand on his shoulder.
“My dear fellow! How fares it with your island Majesty? Such a comfort to have a vestige of royalty,—even spurious royalty in our midst, now that the real thing has temporarily migrated to Denmark.”
“How do you do, Agiropoulos?” said Stavros, crossly.
“Ah, my excellent friend Stavros! The fiery principals! How thrilling! Zeus! that was a bloody encounter! May I implore the soothing charm of your society—with a cigarette? Athens is so dull. All the interesting personages of our drama have vanished, and there is not the ghost of a sensation to rouse us.”
“Are you not going to be married?” snarled Stavros.
“Yes, the silken chains of Hymen will shortly weave their spell around me. The individual sheds his personality upon the gamelian threshold, and the dual is evolved. Do I transgress the proprieties of speech? Alas! my poor single and consequently unhappy friends, you must forgive the metaphysical impetuosities of a contemplating bridegroom.”
He gracefully extracted a cigarette from a dainty silver case, and gazed amorously into space.
“Miss Karapolos is well?” Constantine asked.