“Then why should they criticise us? All we want to be allowed to do is to carry on our government in our own way. Our population is of different race and different creed from Europeans, and therefore necessitates a totally different method of government. England does not understand Turkey, or Turkish methods. I readily grant that our government would not suit England, but neither would British ideas be tolerated here. For many years all the diplomatic correspondence of the Sublime Porte has passed through my hands, hence I know what I am speaking about when on the topic of Turkish diplomacy. Abroad, we are told that our word is not our bond, that we give promises that we do not fulfil, and that we are a century or so behind the times. Well, I admit that we are not a twentieth-century nation. I admit that our Sublime Porte is not so imposing as your Foreign Office in Whitehall, or the Ministère des Affaires Étrangères in Paris, or in Vienna. But I do maintain that the government of my sovereign, the Sultan, is a beneficent one for Turkey, and that our foreign policy has for its base the peace and welfare of the Balkans.” “But Macedonia?” I remarked. He shrugged his shoulders. “The question of Macedonia is, I admit, an extremely difficult one,” he answered. “We have to govern a population so varied, both in nationality and in creed, that there must of necessity be constant aggressions and outbreaks. It is said that we aid and abet the Greek bands in massacring the Christians. I totally deny this. We do not. Surely it is to our own interest to maintain peace and order in Macedonia, and not to allow outsiders to create disorder and dissension!” “And the protests of Bulgaria?” His Excellency smiled. “We hear from time to time threats of war,” was his answer. “But when we hear them, we remember that we are sixteen million Turks; and when we sleep, we sleep quite undisturbed by any war rumours from Sofia.” “Then you do not anticipate armed reprisals from Bulgaria?” He laughed, but said nothing except— “Turkey is well informed, I assure you, of all that transpires in Sofia.” Noury Pasha’s son, a smart lad of sixteen, entered and chatted with us in French. He is going to Paris for his education, and is destined for the Turkish Diplomatic Service. He is a bright, intelligent youth, who, like his father, is imbued with Western ideas, and yet is naturally full of patriotism for his own country. Another cup of excellent coffee, another cigarette over a chat upon private matters, and I took leave of my host—after I had begged the photograph which appears in these pages—feeling that I had met one of the most charming and most intelligent men in the great Ottoman Empire.