“Is that a sound argument” I replied, “for giving them a chance of becoming what the States were _before_ prohibition? Americans do not know ‘how to drink’; and I am afraid the Turks also might learn to use alcohol, _not_ as a beverage or a pick-me-up, but just to get drunk.” The strength and endurance of Turkish children, nourished on bread and water, must prove of the strongest possible support to prohibition. “And remember how quickly the Arab’s wounds were healed at the front, while alcohol was so effective an antidote for septic-poisoning, because it had never before even entered their systems.” Constantinople had proved a sore affront to my national pride; but there was an occasion in Naples when its humiliation was even more complete. I was passing a crowd of happy children on the quay, rolling and tumbling about in some strangely ridiculous fashion. Always keenly interested in children’s games (and prayers), I went up to them and asked what they were doing. It was a game entitled “The drunken Englishman”! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIII A THIRD-CLASS COMPARTMENT—A FRENCHMAN AMONGST THE RUINS AFTER a few miles of such travelling as had now become familiar, I determined that I would change my carriage and pay a visit to the French colonel—which proved far more lengthy than I had intended. When I had manipulated the climb, I found plenty of room in spite of boxes. “What on earth are you doing here?” was his first question, to which I gave him a _tu quoque_. “I am looking after the French interests in Syria,” he replied, an answer that could not fail to provoke a laugh. “That is well worth noting,” I said, “a parallel to my journey from London to Edinburgh, _via_ Paris! It will make ‘good news’ for the British Foreign Office.” “And in what way can it concern them?” was the stiff reply. “Their own record in these parts is not entirely _sans reproche_.” “Don’t forget I am an Englishwoman and not, as you insist on saying, an American.” “Is it not practically the same? You speak one language.” I started up, almost in anger. “Never dare to say such a thing again. I might as well ask whether you were a Senegali. The language is the same. Individual Americans, some parts of their country, I consider, are magnificent, but their Government!” “Will any Government bear close inspection?” “Perhaps not.” “You regard the States precisely as I should expect from an Englishwoman. But, after all, what has Great Britain done in Turkey, after ‘letting us down’ over ‘reparations’—perfidious Albion!” “I may be dense,” I returned (somewhat evasively, I admit), “but what exactly is the connection between Syria and M. Kemal Pasha?” “Everything and nothing,” was the characteristically enigmatic reply. “I take that as courteous French for ‘mind your business,’ as charming a phrase as your _Pourquoi-parceque_.”