In the window sounded a baritone voice singing one of the songs of Naples,—­“Oh, sweet land, sweet gulf!...”  That certainly was the most beautiful spot in the world.  Proud and satisfied with his fate, he would have liked to embrace the waves, the islands, the city, Vesuvius.

A bell jangled impatiently in the corridor.  Captain Ferragut was hungry.  He surveyed with the glance of an ogre the cafe au lait, the abundant bread, and the small pat of butter that the waiter brought him.  A very small portion for him!...  And while he was attacking all this with avidity, the door opened and Freya, rosy and fresh from a recent bath and clad like a man, entered the room.

The Hindu tunic had been replaced with masculine pyjamas of violet silk.  The pantaloons had the edges turned up over a pair of white Turkish slippers into which were tucked her bare feet.  Over her heart there was embroidered a design whose letters Ulysses was not able to decipher.  Above this device the point of her handkerchief was sticking out of the pocket.  Her opulent hair, twisted on top of her head and the voluptuous curves that the silk was taking in certain parts of her masculine attire were the only things that announced the woman.

The captain forgot his breakfast, enthusiastic over this novelty.  She was a second Freya,—­a page, an adorable, freakish novelty....  But she repelled his caresses, obliging him to seat himself.

She had entered with a questioning expression in her eyes.  She was feeling the disquietude of every woman on her second amorous interview.  She was trying to guess his impressions, to convince herself of his gratitude, to be certain that the fascinations of the first hours had not been dissipated during her absence.

While the sailor was again attacking his breakfast with the familiarity of a lover who has achieved his ends and no longer needs to hide and poetize his grosser necessities, she seated herself on an old chaise longue, lighting a cigarette.

She cuddled into this seat, her crossed legs forming an angle within the circle of one of her arms.  Then she leaned her head on her knees, and in this position smoked a long time, with her glance fixed on the sea.  He guessed that she was about to say something interesting, something that was puckering her mental interior, struggling to come out.

Finally she spoke with deliberation, without taking her eyes off the gulf.  From time to time she would stop this contemplation in order to fasten her eyes on Ulysses, measuring the effect of her words.  He stopped occupying himself definitely with the breakfast tray, foreseeing that something very important was coming.

“You have sworn that you will do for me whatever I ask you to do....  You do not wish to lose me forever.”

Ulysses protested.  Lose her?...  He could not live without her.

“I know your former life; you have told me all about it....  You know nothing about me and you ought to know about me—­now that I am really yours.”