In the end there was too much to be done: I had to give up the chase. The _Thraki_ beat me, though not before I had boarded her—luggageless. One peep into the tiny den I was to have slept in made me thankful enough to see her start. The _Syria_, ‘_le bateau de luxe_’ her agents proudly called her (that is the one Greek ship whose decks were ever known to be washed), was to sail on Monday; I should see V. again to say good-bye. All appeared to be for the best. He rode in that evening nothing doubting, bringing me wild Madonna lilies, with sharp-pointed petals, from the hills above Kerech-Koi; how sad to have missed them and him. The next day, the day my ship was to have sailed, the town was again _en fête_. It was more than a question of shutting the banks and shops; this time the whole place was gay with pale blue and white bunting for the festival of King Constantine, Bulgaroctonos (Slayer of Bulgars)—an old title of the Greek Emperors somewhat too hastily revived. St. Sophia was to be the scene of another official service, one of triumph at past victories over the King’s present friends. Rather a tactless subject for so much rejoicing, I could not help thinking, as I heard the Greeks of the hotel going gaily out. But, then, in the Balkans people’s politics change rapidly and irony falls flat. That day things were to move even faster than usual. The service, if it was held, must have been short. It seemed only a moment before the officials were back. It was a very crestfallen little party I met on my way downstairs. The swords of the Staff Colonel and his smart friends clanked dolefully up the marble steps. The civilians, in their ceremonial evening dress and top hats, looked as if they had been to a ball the night before which had rather disagreed with them. I missed the Railway Controller, a delicate little man with birdlike eyes and walk and a monstrous moustache, who had so far successfully dodged all our demands to open the new line connecting Salonica with Athens. But his _confrère_, the Censor, was there, quite shorn of his heavy importance. Even the cheerful fat Banker, who made it his business to keep the pro-German party in roars of laughter every meal-time—presumably over the Allies’ gullibility—for once hadn’t a smile left and seemed completely nonplussed. A shot rang out. Or was it only an extra loud bang on the tramway outside? There was evidently some fresh trouble—perhaps a daylight Zeppelin raid. Just then a French friend passed. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ she said, excitedly. ‘We have taken the post-office and the telegraph; not without some fighting. It was early this morning. Come out with me and see what arrives.’ King Constantine’s fête seemed to be off.