At my first interview with “The Pasha” he was wearing a big astrakhan kalpak, pushed well down over his forehead, and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Though busy receiving ministers and deputies in the Presidential Bureau, he was at the same time waiting, as it were, for the right moment to sum up the whole situation in one final and decisive reply that could not fail to end all discussion. This power to drive right through a subject, to find the way out and take it, is one of the chief sources of his unique authority. He was ready, however, for a sociable cup of coffee, and immediately asked for news of England. Fethi Bey reminded him of a few scenes from life to which I had introduced him in London, including dinner at a Ladies’ Club. Most women would admire the picturesquely weatherbeaten tint of the Pasha’s complexion, though the piercing, almost stern, glance of the eye should remind you that you will do well to say clearly and quietly what you have to say—and go! Though so businesslike and energetic, he has a beautifully modulated voice. His French is well-chosen; in Turkish he is an orator. Here, then, are the face and the expression of a conqueror, but the voice is the voice of a cultured man of the world. Next morning Mustapha Kemal sent his car (a present from the people of Smyrna) that I might be driven to his villa at Tchan-Kaya, almost twenty minutes’ ride from Angora. This is the best road in the district; the others are just rows of holes and bumps on which someone has thrown some cobbles and, incidentally, some houses! Though Tchan-Kaya was given to him by the people, he has handed over this property to the army, and lives there as their guest—surely an unusual, but charming, example of brotherly love. I wonder whether the Pasha will do the same in the house I saw, also presented to him, at Broussa, which an historian and architect came over from Constantinople to redecorate. From Tchan-Kaya one obtains an excellent bird’s-eye view of Angora; whether at midday or at sunset, sprinkled with, or buried in, snow, always picturesque. We get a few hours of sunshine every morning until quite late in the year; enough to welcome the beautiful white minarets, so marked a feature in every Eastern scene, whence the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer five times a day. Dotted over the hills of Tchan-Kaya we see the Pasha’s special guard—the Lasz—wearing a uniform our ladies would be delighted, I think, to copy in velvet or satin. The fashion, however, would only suit those who, like these soldiers from Trébizonde, are tall, slight, and well-built. At the door one gladly accepts the vociferous greeting of a fine brown retriever. Then comes the aide-de-camp, Mahmoud Bey, always ready with a gay smile for his chief’s guests, who leads one straight into the house.