Eski-Chéir had been one of the most flourishing towns in Anatolia, and was destined from its position as a junction between two big railway lines—Angora and Baghdad—to become more prosperous year by year. Every town, of course, has its own story of looting, “violation of women,” and fire; but to the spectator all now seem very much alike, and what chiefly impressed one here was the amazing rapidity with which it had started to recover. If the produce be only lifted from the backs of patient and sure-footed donkeys on to the Mother Earth, it is, after all, extraordinary that there should yet be any produce left. Peasants ready to walk miles along muddy roads to sell their goods in such small quantities for so little profit will scarcely welcome the cost of transport by modern methods. For them, time is _not_ money, and four weeks’ tramp beside a donkey is far cheaper than a few hours by train. It surprised me to find the curio-merchants already again supplied with their tempting wares: mother-o’-pearl ikons and other relics, old coffee-mills, coral seals, cameos, etc. Trade was fairly brisk, being run on the sound basis of quick profits and small returns, fair prices and honest dealing. The attractions, of course, come nowhere near those of the famous bazaar at Constantinople; but I was grateful to find so little haggling over the price. I remember two types of merchants at Constantinople. One kindly-looking old man with a long white beard was sitting cross-legged over his charcoal fire, making himself a cup of coffee. When I inquired about a fine Persian dressing-gown that took my fancy, he simply answered: “Much too dear for you,” and so dismissed me. The other always asked for three times what he was prepared to accept—a most irritating habit. When I visited the bazaar in Turkish dress, my Turkish sister, of course a real Turk, asked if he really found he _could_ rob people in this way. “I never rob Turks,” was the naïve reply, “only the English and the Americans.” The temptation to disclose my nationality was strong, but in those less liberal days it might have meant “trouble” for my friend. Here I soon saw it would be waste of time to visit _any_ bazaar after the French colonel. He counts it a day wasted if he has not found some treasures, which are all sent for him to Paris.... “Poor man,” as my friend the innkeeper would have remarked, “he is so far from home!” In Eski-Chéir before the fire, however, art had been altogether put away for munitions. The factories worked day and night, cannons and lorries in readiness all the time. One day we shall learn something at least of the ceaseless efforts by which victory was snatched out of nothing.