This abrupt proposal was a surprise to the old gentleman, and hardly an agreeable one.  The offer itself was not so astonishing, for the beauty of his younger daughter had often obliged the father to refuse proposals of this kind; but he had never been addressed quite so brusquely before.  Moreover, of all the suitors who had thus far presented themselves, Mr. Plateas seemed the least eligible in point of age and other respects.  But it was not this so much that the old gentleman had in mind, as he said to himself, “What, he too!”

“I am greatly honored by your proposal,” he said to Mr. Plateas; “but my little girl is too young, and I have not thought of marriage for her yet.”

“What little girl?  My suit is not for the younger sister; I ask you for the hand of Miss—­” He meant to call her by her name, but found he did not know it.  “I ask you for the hand of—­your elder daughter.”

Mr. Mitrophanis could not conceal his astonishment at these words; such a thing had never happened before.  He said nothing, but looked sharply at Mr. Plateas, who felt his patience giving way.

“I must admit, Mr. Plateas,” said the old gentleman at last, “that your proposition is wholly unexpected, and comes in rather an unusual form.  Don’t you think that our traditional custom in such cases is very sensible, and that these questions are managed better by intermediaries?”

The professor was not prepared for this.  He had even imagined that the young lady’s father would fall on his neck in the open street, with delight at having at last found the wished-for son-in-law.

“I—­I thought,” he stammered, “that you knew me well enough, and that the simplest way was to speak to you myself.”

“Certainly, without doubt.  But if you would send one of your friends to speak to me, and—­give me time for reflection, you would oblige me greatly.”

“With pleasure!  I’ll send Mr. Liakos.”

At this name the old man frowned.

“Ah!” said he, “Mr. Liakos is in your confidence.”

Poor Mr. Plateas saw that he had made a mistake in bringing up his friend’s name in the affair.  He was about to say something,—­he didn’t know exactly what,—­when Mr. Mitrophanis forestalled him, and ended his embarrassment.

“It is well.  I will await Mr. Liakos.”  Then the old gentleman bowed and walked on.

Never in his life had the professor been in such a state of mental distress as that to which he had been a prey ever since the evening before.  His sufferings at the time he came so near drowning were not to be compared with his present anguish.  Then the danger had come suddenly, and he had realized it to the full only when it was over.  Now, the uncertainty of the future added to his misery.  At the very moment when he thought he had reached port, he found himself completely at sea again.  He stood there in the middle of the square, his arms hanging helplessly, and stared at the back of the retreating merchant.