toward the kitchen, musing. What an odd mixture he was!
Superficially British, with the British outlook; and yet filled with
the dancing blood of the Latin and the cold, phlegmatic blood of the
Slav. He was like a schoolmaster with two students too big for him
to handle. Always the Latin was dispossessing the Slav or the Slav
was ousting the Latin. With fatalistic confidence that nevermore
would he look upon the kindly face of Stefani Gregor, alive, he went
in search of food.

Not a crust did he find. In the ice-chest there was a bottle of
milk - soured. Hungry; and not a crumb! And he dared not go out
in search of food. No one had observed his entrance to the
apartment, but it was improbable that such luck would attend
him a second time.

He returned to the bedroom. He did not turn on the light because
a novel idea had blossomed unexpectedly - a Latin idea. There might
be food on some window ledge. He would leave payment. He proceeded
to the window, throwing up both it and the curtain, and looked out.
Ripping! There was a fire escape.

As he slipped a leg over the sill a golden square sprang into
existence across the way. Immediately he forgot his foraging
instincts. In a moment he was all Latin, always susceptible to the
enchantment
of beauty.

The distance across the court was less than forty feet. He could
see the girl quite plainly as she set about the preparation of her
evening meal. He forgot his danger, his hunger, his code of ethics,