"'Poulos'?" I repeated.
"Could it be Constantinopoulos?" asked Hamlyn, with a nervous deference to my Hellenic learning.
"It might, conceivably," I hazarded, "be Constantine Stefanopoulos."
"Then," said Hamlyn, "I shouldn't wonder if it was. Anyhow, the less you see of him, Wheatley, the better. Take my word for that."
"But," I objected—and I must admit that I have a habit of thinking that everybody follows my train of thought—"it's such a small place that, if he goes, I should be almost bound to meet him."
"What's such a small place?" cried Beatrice, with emphasized despair.
"Why, Neopalia, of course," said I.
"Why should anybody except you be so insane as to go there?" she asked.
"If he's the man I think, he comes from there," I explained, as I rose for the last time; for I had been getting up to go, and sitting down again, several times.
"Then he'll think twice before he goes back," pronounced Beatrice, decisively; she was irreconcilable about my poor island.