"Listen, then, Kyr Themistocli; now, with the sun-blaze, no one comes out to have their boots cleaned after noon, so there is no work before the evening newspapers are published. I will keep you an Embros every day, and at two, or at three, after you have had your sleep, I will bring it and read it to you, and then you need not spend your lepta." "But, my child ..." "Oh, I can read. I can read without stopping at the big words. Also I do not sing when I read. It is not I who say so; it was one of the members of the Parnassos at our examinations, when we all read out aloud. He said to the master, 'That boy there, with the yellow hair, is the only one who can read without singing.' Shall I come, Kyr Themistocli? Shall I come to-morrow?" The old man groped with his hand until he found Aleko's arm and patted it gently. "You are a good boy to a poor blind man." "No," said Aleko wriggling a little, "I like to read, and since you were a schoolmaster perhaps you will know things when I ask you." The old man, stooping, felt for the newspaper on the doorstep and turned towards the house. "Come inside with me for a minute, my lad." Aleko followed him through a narrow passage and into a little living-room, containing a round table covered with a red and white checked cloth, two cupboards, a high one and a low one, and three odd chairs. On the floor were two or three torn newspapers, and on the low cupboard was a pile of unwashed plates. The dust lay thick everywhere. Just as they entered, a door leading to another room opened and a stout woman with a dirty blue apron tied round her, looked in; she held a pan in one hand and a plate of salad in the other. "Your soup is ready," she began, then catching sight of Aleko she added quickly, "A loustro[4] has followed you in. What does he want?" "I brought him," answered Kyr Themistocli. "Sit down, my child." But Aleko had been taught that one should never stay when people are about to sit down to a meal. "With your permission, master, I go to eat bread, and I shall return." "No, do not go. Stay and take your soup with me." The stout woman muttered something about a rat whose hole was too small for him, but who would drag a pumpkin in as well. "What is it, Kyra Katerina?" asked the old man sharply. "Is there not sufficient soup for two?" "As for that, yes, there is sufficient." "Then pour it into two soup plates, and stay ... there was a dish of potatoes left...." "Those are for to-morrow," said the woman sullenly. "I wish for them to-night."