'I believe you English take it for granted that every foreigner is a

born scoundrel,' he said with something like a laugh.

'To tell the truth,' Lushington answered, 'I believe we do. But we are

willing to admit that we can be mistaken. Good morning.' He walked away, and this time Logotheti did not stop him, but got in

and started the car in the opposite direction without looking back. He

was conscious of wishing that he might kill the cool Englishman, and

though his expression betrayed nothing but annoyance a little colour

rose and settled on his cheek-bones; and that bodes no good in the

faces of dark men when they are naturally pale. He reached home, and it

was there still; he changed his clothes, and yet it was not gone; he

drank a cup of coffee and smoked a big cigar, and the faint red spots

were still there, though he seemed absorbed in the book he was reading.

It was not his short interview with Lushington which had so much moved

him, though it had been the first disturbing cause. In men whose

nature, physical and moral, harks back to the savage ancestor, to the

pirate of northern or southern seas, to the Bedouin of the desert, to

the Tartar of Bokhara or the Suliote of Albania, the least bit of a

quarrel stirs up all the blood at once, and the mere thought of a fight

rouses every masculine passion. The silent Scotchman, the stately Arab,

the courtly Turk are far nearer to the fanatic than the quick-tempered

Frenchman or the fiery Italian.

For a long time Constantine Logotheti had been playing at civilisation,

at civilised living and especially at the more or less gentle diversion

of civilised love-making; but he was suddenly tired of it all, because

it had never been quite natural to him, and he grew bodily hungry and

thirsty for what he wanted. The round flushed spots on his cheeks were

the outward signs of something very like a fever which had seized him

within the last two hours. Until then he would hardly have believed

that his magnificent artificial calm could break down, and that he

could wish to get his hands on another man's throat, or take by force

the woman he loved, and drag her away to his own lawless East. He

wondered now why he had not fallen upon Lushington and tried to kill

him in the road. He wondered why, when Margaret had been safe in the

motor car, he had not put the machine at full speed for Havre, where

his yacht was lying. His artificial civilisation had hindered him of

course! It would not check him now, if Lushington were within arm's

length, or if Margaret were in his power. It would be very bad for any

one to come between him and what he wanted so much, just then, that his

throat was dry and he could hear his heart beating as he sat in his

chair. He sat there a long time because he was not sure what he might

do if he allowed himself the liberty of crossing the room. If he did

that, he might write a note, or go to the telephone, or ring for his

secretary, or do one of fifty little things whereby the train of the

inevitable may be started in the doubtful moments of life.




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