It was about half-past six in the evening when we were summoned to embark; and there was no sign of the “special cabin” that had been promised me in this little cockle-shell of a boat, on which passengers, nevertheless, are divided according to class. For my part, I chose to travel second, as there was far more air; and, as we opened the door, the “poultry yard” gave us a hearty welcome! The women had taken their chickens and rabbits into their berths; the floor was strewn with corn and lettuce-leaves! As I disliked sharing my bed with poultry, I should be happier in the cold outside. However, the first officer graciously gives up his cabin. It is tiny, by no means immaculate, and papered with cheerful postcards. But, in the place of honour, Queen of Beauty among the ladies of the Levant, hangs Gladys Cooper! I have never so much admired that lovely actress as when now she seemed smiling down at my mighty efforts to sleep in this tiniest of bunks that had been built for someone of half my length and width. The little tub ultimately started at midnight, dancing over the waves to Constantinople, where Turkish passports are no protection, and I must now learn to depend on my credentials from England. * * * * * What is going to happen to me? Very possibly my passport will be taken from me, or endorsed with the grim words “not to return to England.” My mission, indeed, was harmless, if not sanctioned. I have, honestly, endeavoured to see that England may be “a little better” understood by the Nationalists in Anatolia. But in fighting Prussianism, we have been slightly infected by that disease. It has crept into our legislation and our administration. In free England, Cæsar reigns. We can say, as the Turks say, “We have _Prussia_ to thank for our distress.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXXII CONSTANTINOPLE NO LONGER THE CAPITAL—THE HEART AND SPIRIT OF TURKEY ARE IN ANGORA AS our little cockle-shell reaches the busy quay at Constantinople, the veiled women collect their animals and carry them through the Custom house. I am the only Britisher, yet the tall, well-built official rapidly scans my passport and signs it without moving a muscle, or showing the faintest surprise at my arrival by _that boat_, not even opening his lips in reply to my good-morning. Is this army etiquette? His kind face has been taught not to unbend. It seems a foolish way of encouraging foreigners to understand us. “You are not English,” everyone declares, “dear lady, you have too much heart to be English.” “We English have hearts,” is my reply, “but, for some reason, we must pretend we have none.”