So they toiled on for another hour with no better result, and we began to hesitate about facing the colonel and the director of the Ottoman Bank, where we had all been invited to Sunday lunch. But on the way back we were lucky enough to buy a fine, plump hare from two peasant women we passed on the road; and the colonel was boldly informed that it had fallen to Osman Noury. “Madame Noury must cook him,” cried the colonel, with a laugh that struck one as rather suspicious. The colonel supplied champagne; Mme. Noury superintended the hare and the pilaw; Boghetti brought some fruit; Oeillet was responsible for the cigarettes. When behold, to the manifest discomfort of Osman Noury, the colonel began asking awkward questions about the “where’s and when’s.” “Be careful,” I said, “the colonel is going to wire to his Government about it.” When the laughter subsided, Osman Noury blushingly explained that it had cost him two Turkish pounds! I am sure neither the fact nor the confession diminished our enjoyment of the merry feast. I have been very ill to-day, on the point of slipping out of this world altogether. Not realising the danger of close proximity to a mangal, I carried the precious warmth into my bedroom, to feast on its exquisite purple flames, which I just remember comparing to a sunset. Fortunately, my faithful maid was in the room when I lost consciousness, and I was carried out of the poisonous air. The colonel told me afterwards that before they knew whether I should recover, he was possessed of a horrible panic that he could never persuade his Government I had died by accident.... Everyone will say “the Turks poisoned you and the Frenchman let them do it.” Well, I am still here, and the papers have lost an excellent opportunity for lying copy. M. Louis Steeg declares: “You surely will never die!” * * * * * The Pasha has graciously lent me his car for a visit to Halidé Hanoum. It is a pretty little machine, lined with blue velvet, which hops and bumps and plunges along the roads like a kangaroo, swimming across the river for more miles of twisting acrobatics. I have always admired the carriage-drivers: before (or rather behind) M. Kemal’s chauffeur I am dumb. But, apparently, the cars “don’t mind”!