“Neither can I.... That’s why I am here.... Do you remember the Bible story of a city offered salvation if but _one_ righteous and upright man could be found within her gates? So, God willing, may I, as _one_ Englishwoman and a friend, preserve for my country some last shred of respect and faith in our honour among the Moslems of Turkey and India, Egypt, Persia, and Palestine.” Courtesy, I suppose, kept him silent, and we were soon busy with preparations for dinner. He produced a towel for serviette, a piece of newspaper for table-cloth, and—luxury of luxuries—a knife, a fork, and a mug in which to enjoy some good French wine! The menu, too, was a change: _foie gras_ and sardines, almonds and figs, apples and jam. “I shall come and dine with you again,” said I, lest he should be too shy to invite me. I found that the colonel and his staff could fully sympathise, from their own experience, with my anathemas upon luggage traffic. I told him “no doubt it was he and his friends who were making those awful ‘night noises’ that so alarmed me”; and though, of course, he denied it, my story received the tribute of a polite and good-natured laugh. “I admire your courage,” he said again. “Reserve your judgment. You will have time enough to see later what a combative person I can be.” “_Nous verrons._” We reached Eski-Chéir at about nine o’clock, and a telegram announced to the colonel that a special private car was on its way to meet him. “Now,” said he, “I can offer hospitality, not only to you, but to your friends as well.” We went to a café for tea, where numbers of Turks, wearing kalpaks, were singing patriotic songs. Directly they had finished, I clapped my hands, crying: “M. Kemal Pasha, _Chok Guzel_,” and their delight was obvious. “Poor fellows,” said the colonel, whom I began to find sympathetic, “it needs such a tiny effort; they will respond to the least hint of real sympathy.” There is nothing sordid about this little tumble-down café, though its floors are thick with mud and the attendants are charmingly shabby. “At least,” I said, “this dirt and discomfort is artistic.... What artist would dream of painting an American sky-scraper, luxurious and comfortable though it be? Yet here one could cover the walls of an exhibition from one day’s experience. The picturesque water-pots, the quaint trays, the artistic tea-glasses and coffee-cups, the colouring of the costumes. “If Mr. Chester of the U.S. has come here to sweep away all this he is an enemy of Art. “I love creature comforts—warmth, baths, and perfumes, but I sincerely trust no fever of reform will ever induce the Turks to spoil their surroundings; and, above all, that they will never call in American specialists to teach them building achievements. By all means let them adopt American hygiene; but American architecture, God forbid!