When he turned into the Place Mehemet Ali he remembered suddenly that he had wasted his evening.  It was ten o’clock, too late to set about the business he had intended.  He was angry with himself now as well as ashamed.  He wandered up and down the square, looking at the statue of the great khedive, silhouetted against the moonlight, and cursed at his misfortunes.

Why should he, Gregorio Livadas, be in need of money?  He had worked hard, but without success.  He could have borne his ill luck had he alone been the sufferer, but he must consider his child—­and, of course, his wife too.  He was really fond of his wife in a way.  But he smiled proudly as he thought of his son, for whom he schemed out a great future.  He and Xantippe would train the boy so carefully that he would grow up to be a great man, and, what was more, a rich man.  How they would laugh, all three, as they sat in the splendid cafes over their wine, at the hardships the father had endured!  Still he must not forget the present, and he sorely needed money.  He would go to Amos again.  Amos was a rich man, very rich, and a filthy Jew.  Amos could easily spare him some money and renew the last loan.  He was going to be successful now and would be able to pay good interest.  What better investment could Amos have?  Surely none.  He was going to set up a cafe with the money at Tanta, or Zagazig, or even Benhur,—­yes, Benhur was the best,—­where there were few competitors.  Then he would make a fortune, as other Greeks had done, and Amos would be paid in full.  He was not extravagant, no; he had the business instincts of his race.  Half these rich merchants of Alexandria had begun as he would begin; he would succeed as they had succeeded.  The future was really hopeful, if he could only borrow a little capital.

With these thoughts surging through his brain Gregorio paced up and down the pavements.  At last he turned into the Rue des Soeurs and started slowly toward his home.

This street, the sink of Alexandria, was at its gayest.  The cafes where cheap liquor is sold were crowded.  Soldiers and sailors, natives and the riffraff of half a dozen nations, jostled one another.  The twanging of guitars and the tinkling of pianos was heard from every house.  Women, underclothed and overpainted, leaned from the upper windows and made frequent sallies into the street to capture their prey.  Loud voices sang lusty English choruses and French chansonnettes, and Neapolitan songs tried to assert themselves whenever the uproar ceased for a moment.  Every one talked his, or her, own tongue, and gesture filled in the gaps when words were wanting.  All seemed determined to degrade themselves as much as possible, and nearly every one seemed supremely happy.

Occasionally there was a fight, and knives were used with unerring skill; but the mounted police who patrolled the streets, though overtaxed, managed to preserve a certain amount of order.