His palace is lavishly supplied with fine carpets, always the chief item of furniture in the East, while there are many chairs and a handsome desk in the waiting room. “Welcome to our shores, dear miss,” said the Vali. And that he might at once disassociate me from English policy, I replied: “That is certainly a charming welcome from a Malta man.” “Malta to me,” said my host, as he took my hand like an old friend, “is still incomprehensible. What can have happened to England?” “I understand it, dear Excellency, no better than you can. The more I hear of what has taken place in Turkey during the last few years, the more often I repeat your own words. What, indeed? To an Englishwoman who loves her country, it means great sorrow; but this unreasoning hostility towards your people must stop. That is why I am going to Angora. After my visit, at any rate, the Turks shall see that _one_ Englishwoman can stand out against injustice.” “Thank you a thousand times, dear miss,” was his reply, as the attendant brought in coffee and cigarettes. Like all the Nationalist leaders, the Vali is a young man. He looks, in fact, about forty, and comes from an Albanian family. Of medium height, slight and dark, good-looking despite his glasses, and intelligent; he is, above all, an honest and kindly gentleman. If all the “fanatics” of Angora are of this description, I shall have nothing to fear. Abdul Halik Bey is a great admirer of England. Begging I should not hesitate to ask for anything, assuring me that no service possible to render will be neglected, he called up the head of the police and three of his officers to make my acquaintance. The Vali explains that as Smyrna is in ruins, I must go to the only existing hotel—a temporary establishment under the care of Naim Bey, who had been the proprietor of the two best hotels in Smyrna, now burnt to the ground. This “temporary establishment” was the town residence of the Spartallis and a very fine mansion indeed! When I had said _au revoir_ to the Vali, I paid my return visit to the chief of the police, Zia Bey—a handsome and very energetic young man of about thirty-two, who speaks only Turkish. Again we drank coffee. He pointed to the picture of M. Kemal Pasha above his desk, and made a little speech about him, which, alas, I could not understand. As comment, however, I clapped my hands, adding: “M. Kemal Pasha Chok Guzel” (_i.e._, very beautiful), which evidently pleased him. He could see at least that my spirit was willing to pay tribute to his national hero although the Turkish words failed me. Throughout Anatolia, whenever at a loss for words, I adopted this phrase; never once did it fail to convey the meaning I intended—congratulations for his magnificent victory. Zia Bey has published some detective novels—from his own personal experiences. Like the man himself, they seem to have secured wide applause.