She told me she owed her home to the wind’s kindness. “We were on the roof all night, watching its varying directions, although it did not come our way until about 2.30 A.M. As the abandoned Greek ammunition was all stored behind us, we could no longer risk staying in the face of the wind. At the same moment a flashlight from H.M.S. _Iron Duke_ began to play on the pier, and we realised that Admiral de Brock was signalling for us to leave the town. Pushing our way through a howling mob of men and animals, we at last reached the waiting boat; but no sooner were we on board than, to our relief, the wind once more veered. There was a chance for one side of the Smyrna Quay, on which stood the Aidin station.” In her judgment, the Turks acted throughout with the greatest moderation. Everywhere in Anatolia I found clear evidence that Greeks had indulged in the worst type of barbarianism, amply sufficient to justify any slight Turkish excesses that may have occurred in Smyrna. Since her Greek household had all departed, Mrs. de C—— was very busy “about many things”—dusting, sweeping, and cooking. Nor were her sympathies very keen with the Greek refugees, to many of whom she had extended hospitality. They had accepted a night’s lodging, and then decamped with sheets, blankets, pillows, towels, and clothes! Lunch, however, had been served for her by a “Catholic,” who cooked Turkish dishes to perfection. “Catholic” is now the last word in “Nationality,” covering a multitude of “pasts,” and saving the “Christian” from having to answer awkward questions. The “Catholic” who waits on me at the hotel was an upholsterer in quite a large way of business. The sewing-woman, whom I have occasionally employed for odd jobs, though a Greek, is also “Catholic.” In Angora these derelicts are self-styled “Catholic Turks.” * * * * * I have boarded the warship, despite the captain’s fear of a woman’s pen. What would he find to say about my _real_ intentions? Most of us, happily, can look on sailors of all nations, as I do, absolutely without prejudice. For here, at least, none can capture our laurels, and all the world loves a British sailor. Amidst the beautiful fittings of his luxurious cabin, I was received by the captain with every mark of the courtesy that is second nature to the real English gentleman. He was a naval man to his finger-tips, stamped all over with Nelson’s magic call to “Duty.” For his magnificent achievements in the war, his V.C. was indeed richly deserved; and yet, I wondered, is it the wisest policy to expose this _real_ “personage” to the kind of actually trivial irregularities which in a town like Smyrna a too formal officialism may so easily mistake for grave affronts to our national prestige? While in Smyrna I saw an example of such real dangers—a mere nothing that might suddenly have developed into a _casus belli_, though in this case any serious disaster was, luckily, averted.