“The devil of it was,” he declared that night, with a sweep of his arm that sent a full glass of whiskey and soda hurtling across space to my bookshelves and ruining some choice bindings—­“the devil of it was,” said he, after expressing rueful contrition, “that she treated him like a dog, whereas I could do anything I liked with her.  But she married him.”

Of course she married him.  Most Albanian young women in her position would have married a brave and handsome Englishman of incalculable wealth—­even if they had not Liosha’s ulterior motives.  And beyond question Liosha had ulterior motives.  Prescott espoused her cause hotly.  He convinced her that he was a power in Europe.  As a Reuter correspondent he did indeed possess power.  He would make the civilised world ring with this tale of bloodshed and horror.  He would beard Sultans in their lairs and Emperors in their dens.  He would bring down awful vengeance on the heads of her enemies.  How Sultans and Emperors were to do it was as obscure as at the horror-filled hour of their first meeting.  But a man vehemently in love is notoriously blind to practical considerations.  Prescott put his life into her hands.  She accepted it calmly; and I think it was this calmness of acceptance that infuriated Jaffery.  If she had been likewise caught in the whirlpool of a mad passion, Jaffery would have had nothing to say.  But she did not (so he maintained) care a button for Prescott, and Prescott would not believe it.  She had promised to marry him.  That ideal of magnificent womanhood had promised to marry him.  They were to be married—­think of that, my boy!—­as soon as they got back to Scutari and found a British Consul and a priest or two to marry them.  “Then for God’s sake,” roared Jaffery, “let us trek to Scutari.  I’m fed up with playing gooseberry.  The Giant Gooseberry.  Ho! ho! ho!”

So they shortened their projected journey and, making a circuit, picked up the motor-car—­a joy and wonder to Liosha.  She wanted to drive it—­over the rutted wagon-tracks that pass for roads in Albania—­and such was Prescott’s infatuation that he would have allowed her to do so.  But Jaffery sat an immovable mountain of flesh at the wheel and brought them safely to Scutari.  There arrangements were made for the marriage before the British Vice-Consul.  On the morning of the ceremony Prescott fell ill.  The ceremony was, however, performed.  Towards evening he was in high fever.  The next morning typhoid declared itself.  In two or three days he was dead.  He had made a will leaving everything to his wife, with Jaffery as sole executor and trustee.

This sorry ending of poor Prescott’s romance—­I never knew him, but shall always think of him as a swift and vehement spirit—­was told very huskily by Jaffery beneath the wistaria arbour.  Tears rolled down Barbara’s and Doria’s cheeks.  My wife’s sympathetic little hand slid into Liosha’s.  With her other hand Liosha fondled it.  I am sure it was rather gratitude for this little feminine act than poignant emotion that moistened Liosha’s beautiful eyes.