“Is he a Greek?”

“No.”

“A Frenchman?”

“No.”

“A German?”

“No.”

Suddenly Gregorio felt a kind of cramp at his heart, and he had to pause before he put the next question.  He could scarcely explain why he hesitated, but he called to mind the Paradise cafe and the red-faced Englishman.  He was ready enough to sacrifice his wife if by so doing money might be gained, but he felt somehow hurt in his vanity at the idea of this ugly, slow-witted Northerner usurping his place.  With an effort, however, he put the question: 

“Is he an Englishman?”

“Yes.”

He was seized with a tumult of anger.  He spoke volubly, talking of the ignorance of the English, their brutality, their dull brains, their stupid pride.  Xantippe waited till he had finished speaking and then replied quietly: 

“It cannot matter to you.  It is my concern.  You have lost all rights to be angry with me or those connected with me.”

Gregorio refused to hear reason, and explained how he begrudged them their wealth and fame.  “For these English are a dull people, and we Greeks are greatly superior.”

“I do not agree with you,” Xantippe replied.  “I have learned what a man is since I have known him, and I have learned to hate you.  You may have more brains—­that I know nothing of, nor do I care.  He could not behave as you have behaved, nor have sacrificed me as you have sacrificed me.  Some of his money comes to you.  You want money.  Be satisfied.”

Gregorio felt the justice of her words, and he watched her put on her hat and leave the room.  A minute later, looking out of the window, he saw her link her arm in that of the Englishman of the Paradiso, and across the street, at the threshold of the Penny-farthing Shop, Madam Marx waved her hand to himself and laughed.

VIII—­A DESOLATE HOME-COMING

Toward the evening of a day a fortnight later, Gregorio found himself seated in Madam Marx’s cafe, idly watching the passers-by.  He was feeling happier, for that was being amassed which alone could insure happiness to him.  Each day some golden pieces were added to the amount saved, and the cafe at Benhur seemed almost within his grasp.  The feeling of security from want acted as a narcotic and soothed him, so that the things which should have troubled him scarcely interested him at all.  He was intoxicated with the sight of gold.  When he had first seen Xantippe and the Englishman together his anger had been violent; but when at last the futility of his rage became certain, his aggressive passion had softened to a smouldering discontent that hardly worried him, unless he heard some one speak a British name.  His prosperity had destroyed the last vestiges of shame and soothed his illogical outbursts of fury.  He was contented enough now to sit all day with Madam Marx, and returned to his home in the evening when Xantippe was away.  He had spoken to her only once since she had told him she hated him.  He had strolled out of the cafe about midday and entered his room.  Xantippe was there, talking to her child, and quietly bade him go away.