On a crowded platform—for the arrival of a train is an event—stood a Chef de Cabinet of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and other officials. The Prime Minister embraced his old friend the cheik, and carried him off to his simple two-roomed dwelling. When I met Fethi Bey in London, it seemed incredible that he should have been treated as an enemy and exiled to Malta. Now that I came to know Rauf Bey, it was impossible not to feel the same. Away in these distant mountains, he speaks the most excellent English, without even an accent. I remember a merchant of Smyrna, who complained to me that “these horrible people expect us to learn their language, to speak and write it.” “And why not?” I answered. “They learn ours.” “Oh, that’s quite different. Besides, Turkish is much too difficult.” I reminded him of Mrs. John Burns. When her husband became a Cabinet Minister, a certain fine lady decided to amuse herself by inviting “the man’s wife” to tea. Her note ran: “Do excuse my not having called on you. It is so far for me to come from Mayfair to Battersea.” Mrs. Burns replied: “It is exactly the same distance from Battersea to Mayfair.” “That is a charming story, but it will not persuade me to learn Turkish.” The Prime Minister, for some reason wearing a fez in place of the picturesque kalpak, brought me apologies for Fethi Bey’s absence. “It is Friday, and he has not been to the office all day.” We had all forgotten that it was the Moslem Sunday. “Now we are going to be friends,” I said later to Rauf Bey, “we must arrange ‘the same day’ for our prayers of thanksgiving for peace.” “It is you who will have to change,” he replied, smiling; “you must learn to go our ways now.” Here, indeed, at this far-away little station, one seemed to be entering some kindly “brotherhood.” Everyone was wringing the colonel’s hand, embracing the general and the cheik. I felt, too, that my fellow-passengers were telling them about “a new member” they wanted to introduce, saying heartily: “She will soon know all about the rules of our club.” Everyone here plainly “stood for” the same ideals. We are talking like friends already, without the formality of an introduction. We are all working for a definite and well-defined goal. Houses are scarcely needed for hospitality in a town with this atmosphere of _camaraderie_. I found myself chatting with the Prime Minister as though we were old members of the same club. When, a few minutes later, I described the unconscious influence to the colonel, he only said to his friends: “See how quickly she catches the atmosphere of this delightful place!” Here it is sympathy with Turkey in her bid for freedom that gives one the _entré_ to the society, as in London one gains admission to the club, in my case for example, as a writer of books. There is no sense of suspicion. You feel you have a right to be here all the time. If you were not _trusted_ you would not be allowed over the threshold.