Again and again I try to assure them that our policy in Turkey is going to “come right.” When they politely retorted that we “did not seem in any great hurry to start turning,” I could only suggest that “Empires, like whales, could not quickly change their direction.” Younous Nadi Bey is a most interesting talker. Like so many of the Nationalists, he “comes from” Malta; like them all, he loves his country sincerely, and is eager to protect her. Can we expect these men to trust the Power that, only three months ago, was doing its best to destroy them? For myself, I could only hope that we should soon give them sound reason to change their opinions. I afterwards paid a visit to Younous Nadi at the offices of the _Yeni Gun_. After coffee in his primitive “editorial sanctum,” I was shown over all the “works.” The illustrations are prepared with a hand machine, which reminded me of our school magazine activities; but the “results” are, if anything, rather better than our own “dailies” achieve. The operator had built his bed over the solitary press, in part, no doubt, to save time, but possibly also with the idea of protecting his “treasure.” The editor apologised for the lack of all our modern processes of production. I was the more inclined to compliment him upon his conquest of difficulties. It is surely a _tour de force_ to “get the news” from this Anatolian machinery, and there are sixty papers in Anatolia! * * * * * We were staying in the Hadji Baïram quarter of Angora, so called from the mosque and turbé erected in memory of that sainted man. My host’s house stands on the edge of a hillock, exposed on all sides to the rain or wind or snow. No carriage can drive up to the doors, and, too often, that last hundred yards’ walk means being soaked to the skin. Any number of stray dogs and cats find shelter in its many doorways, howling and whining all through the night. [Illustration: GRAND NATIONAL ASSEMBLY AT ANGORA. p. 141 ] My guide is supposed to call for me at ten o’clock in the morning, but I have often enough rejoiced at his indifference to the clock. There is so much to sketch from our front door: an unused cemetery, with moss-covered stèles (tombstones) lying in picturesque confusion; a tumble-down shepherd’s hut; a crumbling mosque; mud houses in need of repair; and for background, a steep hill crowned by Timourlin’s tomb. [Illustration: “There is so much to sketch from our front door.” ] While painting, I have counted just four passers-by—two men leading their fruit-laden donkeys, and two women taking their asses to drink. No artist can resist Oriental landscapes; and genius, I suppose, would hardly remember to share my longing for nice warm “Western” baths in an atmosphere that means “microbes” in summer and in winter all kinds of discomfort.