"'No,' I said, shaking my head, 'you are making a mistake. But I know.' He moved slightly, leaning forward. "'You know where she lives?' he muttered. 'This place where she is very happy?' "'No, I can't say I do,' I replied. 'You can hardly expect me to tell you, either, even if I knew, after what you said just now. Of course,' I went on, 'you spoke in hyperbole, but it would be scarcely the act of a gentleman to distress a woman by forcing yourself upon her.' "'Hyperbole?' he repeated, staring at me as though fascinated. 'Gentleman ... distress?... she gave the Sarafov girl some English clothes. I never imagined for a moment.... Incredible _dénouement_.' He looked suddenly discouraged. 'Then you have her in England.' A gleam of understanding came into his eyes. 'You have brought her back here? Well, do you know what she will do, now you have finished with her? She will----' "He stopped as I put up my hand. I said 'She is not my mistress, I tell you.' He brought his hand down with a crash on the table, so that the glasses jumped and the ink-bottle slipped off and emptied itself on the floor. One or two people looked at him, but most of the excitement centred round the robust person with the silver star, whose speech was being applauded with a tremendous amount of guttural approval. Nikitos stood up, towering over me in a threatening manner. "'Then who took her from me?' he snarled, 'who gave her the English clothes? You....' He sat down again and held up a menacing finger. 'You think, you imagine, that the destruction of my hopes is to be accepted with what you call philosophy? Well, yes.... I am philosophical----' he stooped without taking his eyes from mine and replaced the ink-bottle on the table. 'Listen, Monsieur. I am a pure man. In my travels, in Egypt, in Turkey, and in Europe, I keep myself--you understand--immaculate. Because I have here'--he tapped his dark forehead where the large flat black eyebrows were like symmetrical charcoal smudges--'I have here an undoubted ambition. In Egypt I was poor--very poor--very, very poor. Captain Macedoine, whom I met in my business, extends to me his generosity. To me, a poor interpreter in a firm of exporters, he offers his friendship. I confide to him my ambition, my dreams. My _métier_, I tell him, is politics; but of what use without the financial power? You comprehend, Monsieur? For me it was impossible to associate with a _demi-vierge_. I express myself to Captain Macedoine with great strength, for it is my business in Alexandria to introduce these ladies to the captains and the passengers. Captain Macedoine gives me his entire confidence. He tells me he has a daughter. When he is appointed to a position in Ipsilon he is good enough to obtain for me also a subordinate appointment. He brings his daughter from England. We are affianced. We come to Saloniki. I secure for them a good house, most suitable, in the _Rue Paleologue_. What then? Mademoiselle is _distrait_.