“What is his name?” she asked, uncanny calm.
“Alexis Papadopolis.”
“A Greek, then,”
I nodded.
“He is very young?”
“Scarcely older than you. They say he was educated in Paris, and that he is an atheist. He fought against the Turks in Candia, and is said to have distinguished himself there no less by his race-hatred and cruelty, than by his bravery.”
“All in all, then, a man,” she cried with sparkling eyes.
“At present he is living in Florence,” I continued, “he is said to be tremendously rich—”
“I didn’t ask you about that,” she interrupted quickly and sharply. “The man is dangerous. Aren’t you afraid of him? I am afraid of him. Has he a wife?”
“No.”