“And what if I did? There, I’ll kiss you again, and swear I don’t care a rap for you,” she cried, half-laughing, and gathering his head into her hands, she kissed his lips repeatedly. “Now be off, and don’t let me see you come whimpering or stamping about this neighbourhood again.”
She pushed him firmly out of the room, and ferociously slammed the door after him. When she was alone, she flung up her arms spasmodically, and cried:—
“Ouf! the fool! I’ve saved him, and I believe he is grateful to me. Poor Photini! You ugly, forsaken old soul, to love a yellow-headed boy at your time of life, with nothing in the world to recommend him, not even his stupid yellow head.” With that she poured herself out a generous glass of brandy, and drank it off at a draught.
Poor Photini!
That afternoon Ehrenstein met the Greek poet in Stadion Street, and they turned and walked together towards Constitution Square, where they sat down at one of the numerous tables outside the Cafés and drank black coffee. Captain Miltiades passed, looking more military and more fierce than ever, twirling a ferocious moustache and roving a killing dark blue eye in search of feminine victims. He stopped to exchange a few words with the Greek poet, and was introduced to Rudolph.
“Has he not a very pretty sister who is taking lessons from Mademoiselle Natzelhuber?” Rudolph asked, afterwards.
“Who? Karapolos? I never heard of a sister. I always thought he was an antique orphan. No one knows where he lives. He is the most abominable fraud in Athens,—a kind of military clown, but a brave soldier for all that, in spite of his blagues.”