'She always talks in that way,' he said. 'She thinks I can do anything,
but as a matter of fact I have no influence to speak of, and money has
nothing to do with an artist's success. I shall certainly be there on
your first night, and you will not object to my splitting my gloves in
applauding you?' 'Oh no!' Margaret laughed, too. 'You are welcome to do that! There is a
cab.' She held up her parasol to attract the driver's attention, and
Logotheti made a few steps forward and called him.
'Where shall I tell the man to take you?' Logotheti asked, as she got
in.
'To the Saint Lazare station, please. Thank you very much!' She smiled pleasantly and nodded as she drove away. He stood still a
moment on the pavement, looking after her, and then turned in the
opposite direction, lighting a cigarette as he walked.
He was a Greek, and an educated one, and as he sauntered along on the
shady side of the Avenue Hoche, the cigarette twitched oddly in his
mouth, as if he were talking to himself. From four and twenty centuries
away, in the most modern city of the world, broken lines of an ode of
Anacreon came ringing to his ears, and his lips formed the words
noiselessly: 'I wish I were the zone that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs ...
Oh, anything that touches thee!
Nay, sandals for those fairy feet ...' That, at least, is the English for it, according to Thomas Moore.