Then there came back to him the face of the Englishman he had seen talking to the violinist of the Paradiso. He hated the man because he was ugly and rich. These English were all rich, and yet they seemed to him a miserable race, mere ignorant bullies. He remembered how often he had come to the help of the English travellers who filled Egypt. Why had he, he asked himself, for the sake of a miserable reward, prevented them being cheated, when he, with all his talents, was condemned to starve? Even his child, he thought, would grow to hate him if he remained poor. He must get money. Amos would have to lend him some. The Jews were unpopular among the Greeks; it were wise to keep on good terms with them, as Amos would find out.
At last he fell asleep.
In the morning his troubles began again. There was no coffee, and only a little Arab bread, and when that was done they must starve if they could not get some money. Gregorio tore off a bit of bread and ate it slowly, looking at his wife, who sat weeping beside him.
“I shall go to Amos,” he said, firmly.
“Ah, yes, to Amos,” Xantippe answered quietly; “but it will be no good.”
“Why no good?”
“Because you owe him money, and he will give you no more till he is paid.”
“But we cannot pay him. He must let us have some. If not—” and Gregorio raised threatening.
His wife smiled sadly and kissed him.
“You will not frighten Amos, my love. When I told him the child had been ill, he only laughed.”