Shortly after the appearance of my “defence,” the correspondent of a big newspaper in Chicago spoke of “my uncle,” Mr. Lloyd George. I protested, “not because I should not be proud of the relationship, but because I happen to have no such claim.” “Dear lady,” he replied, “don’t think I shall ever want to spoil your little game.” Such a remark did not merit a serious answer, and I allowed the matter to slide. I knew very well Mr. Lloyd George would never lift a finger to help “his niece,” for have I not four times appealed to him in vain on matters of the greatest national importance? Yet “his niece” will continue to defend him against “unjust” attacks, and criticise him also. The Smyrna capitalists also did not love me because I wrote: “The day is past when financiers can obtain ‘concessions’ for 500 Turkish pounds backshish and then complain of the Turks for being amenable to bribes. The happy day will never return when the foreigner lived in Turkey without taxation, with next to nothing to pay in rent, was charged one and sixpence for a shooting licence, and had full control of money and trade.” “Turkey is now for the Turks, and the Capitalists will have to recognise this or leave. “Never again will Smyrna become the Aliens’ Paradise it once was. Would anyone, for example, have dared to offer the trams provided for Smyrna to any other nation but Turkey? Why were there not electric trams, instead of these wretched horse-boxes drawn by underfed ponies? And the compartment reserved for Turkish women was not even separated by a partition, but by a sheet that once perhaps was white! “There are men in this town,” I wrote, “who would plunge Europe into war, to bring back the dear old lazy-going Turk who made so charming a background for our novels and plays. They would restore him for no higher purpose than to fill their purses at his expense.” At least, I said to these merchants: “If you cannot ‘love’ my whip, you know, in your heart of hearts, that I have spoken the truth. You should have a mighty respect for me, and I ask for nothing more.” The South American answered: “Every word you say _is_ true, and we _all_ admire you for it.” Towards nightfall, however, my mind was occupied by certain more personal anxieties. The Italian had not yet even come to the hotel, and I could hear nothing of him. I began to reproach myself with not having attempted to extend the protection of my papers to him, although, like the gentleman he is, he had already refused my suggestion to that effect.