“A Frenchman?”
“No.”
“A German?”
“No.”
Suddenly Gregorio felt a kind of cramp at his heart, and he had to pause before he put the next question. He could scarcely explain why he hesitated, but he called to mind the Paradise cafe and the red-faced Englishman. He was ready enough to sacrifice his wife if by so doing money might be gained, but he felt somehow hurt in his vanity at the idea of this ugly, slow-witted Northerner usurping his place. With an effort, however, he put the question:
“Is he an Englishman?”
“Yes.”
He was seized with a tumult of anger. He spoke volubly, talking of the ignorance of the English, their brutality, their dull brains, their stupid pride. Xantippe waited till he had finished speaking and then replied quietly:
“It cannot matter to you. It is my concern. You have lost all rights to be angry with me or those connected with me.”
Gregorio refused to hear reason, and explained how he begrudged them their wealth and fame. “For these English are a dull people, and we Greeks are greatly superior.”