The car arrived about eleven o’clock, and though we were driven to spend the night in the station (a junction between HAÏDAR Pasha, Angora and Smyrna); though the wind howled over the beating rain, and the train shrieked in the distance, the contrast of so much comfort (on the luxurious couch of a roomy car) with the experience of the previous night, made one feel that the discomfort itself had been worth while. As the colonel, the cheik and the officers in turn brought me a glass of tea by way of nightcap, I said to each: “How good it is to be here!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIV IN THE “TRAIN DE LUXE”—THE SUPREME GOOD FELLOWSHIP OF ENGLISH LAUGHTER—JOURNEYING TOWARDS THE CRADLE OF NEW TURKEY IT was well past ten when I woke next morning. Though the sun was blazing through the uncurtained windows, I had slept undisturbed. [Illustration: A Battle Royal with my Tangled, Dusty Hair. ] There had, of course, been no chance of “undressing for the night.” But I had been able to take off my boots, and having a whole compartment to myself, I was only too glad to take out my wire brush for the luxury of a “battle royal” with my tangled and dusty hair. I was still only half awake and far too tired to think of _les convenances_, when a smiling crowd of excited and gesticulating Turks suddenly appeared on the platform. Truth to tell, the six-days-and-five-nights’ journey seemed like an eternity. I had forgotten Smyrna—almost forgotten the war. Were these happy children the “enemies” of my country? A tactful little bird now reminded me that Turks are not used to the vision of ladies “at the toilette,” and it was, perhaps, a somewhat perverse form of gratitude that tempted me to fill my rubber basin from my host’s bottle of Evian in order to wash my hands “under the table.” [Illustration: A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table. ] Despite haste and discretion, however, I experienced an unusual sense of being dressed and clean, as I eventually stepped out into the daylight to make the acquaintance of Eski-Chéir. I found the colonel on the platform talking with animation to a nice-looking Turkish general, who also, it appeared, had a saloon, to which we all three soon adjourned for coffee and talk. He, too, will scarcely believe that I am English.... “I did not think Englishwomen could laugh so heartily,” was his excuse for scepticism. “My dear sir,” I replied, “I was born laughing, and shall keep it up to the bitter end. God has given me a few gifts—not many—and that for which I give most thanks is a keen sense of humour.” So I trotted out all the experiences of my journey one by one, not forgetting the Greek I had to “shake” at Athens, and the Frenchman in the “Caracole.” Convulsed with laughter, they one and all shouted: “She is _not_ English!”