Mustapha Kemal Pasha will find no difficulty about proving his confidence in Nationalism. “If Europe deny us justice, we shall obtain justice from Asia The brotherhood of Islam stands solidly for us.” * * * * * This Christmas, after a pleasant dinner at the hotel with Mr. D——, I asked him to take me to church. “Can you hold on to Faith after what you have seen?” he asks. “I have sometimes nearly lost hold. But when I realise that ‘war’ has taken away everything else from us, I just _hang on_, hard.” So I go to church alone, leaving the hideous jazz-band and the noisy dancers; who drink and step out like kangaroos by way of enjoyment! The eternal beauty of the midnight Mass carries one right away from the dreadful tragedy of life, handing us, too, spiritual food for the heart’s strengthening. On the way home I was humming the Christmas hymn, “Come and Adore Him,” when a clash of discord struck at me from the approaching hotel-mob; for _their_ part, humming “_j’en ai marre_” (“I am fed up”) the most contagious refrain ever uttered. I, very unreasonably, poured out my wrath on Mr. D—— next morning. “Is it impossible to make them realise what their song _means_? Nero fiddled while Rome was burning; they are dancing to the tune of a poor woman’s broken heart. Someone will soon find a gay air for “the Song of the Shirt,” and men will be hopping and braying to it.” * * * * * At last I am, fortunately, able to drive quietly away from Pera. “You haven’t changed a bit, you always disliked Pera,” my little Turkish sister had said. “I remember that when we used to go to the Ottoman Bank to fetch your letters you would have the horses whipped up so as to ride to Pera and back as quickly as possible.” Again I am gazing upon the “Sublime Porte.” It is still “sublime” and the sunset has not changed. Yet no longer can it command my love; and woman does not reason! The old buildings are as magnificent as ever; the sun is still sparkling on the gold; the picturesque beggars are still there; the blue sky, the Bosphorus, and the cypress trees! Only the heart and spirit of Turkey have gone to Angora. This is no longer the Turkey of the Turks; and so I am a stranger here, and there are no friendly faces of the Anatolians to give me greeting. * * * * * Along the road the same houses are tumbling down, at exactly the same stage of decrepitude. “Nothing has changed, my child,” I say, “except my heart.” As we pass the old Tekké, however, I miss the kindly face that used to smile on me from behind the green grilled window; and we laugh over the curious souvenirs I managed to obtain from that holy man.