As Charles Dean and his family drove into the town it was early afternoon, but already one half of the place was in shadow, the other half blazed with sunlight streaming over the western precipice. They were driven through the main street, a well observed party, giving as much interest as they found. The company employing Dean had a house for its agent on the outskirts of the town and to that they made their way. Presently they turned off from the road and went down a slope which led them through a beautiful garden into a small courtyard. Here, their home came into view, and as the large, low, white-faced building rose up among the trees, they all gave a cry of delight. On one side ran a large pergola built of yellow stone and black wood, leading to a garden which, even at this early time, rioted in colour. Beyond the pergola, approached by broad stone steps, lay the river, bordered with trees beneath which several boats were moored. One end of the house, raised upon piles, overlooked the river, with a wonderful view down the gorge towards the dazzling minarets and towers of the town. They had scarcely noticed this enchanting vista when the _arabya_ pulled up in front of a large porch, screened with a swinging rush curtain. Before it, with a smile of welcome on their faces, stood the bronzed Englishman and his wife, whom Dean had come to relieve. Greetings exchanged, they were led into a large, yellow room with French windows opening on to a verandah. Passing through the windows they were confronted once more with the view down the gorge. Tea was laid, and the travellers were soon exchanging the news. The agent, Mr. Price, and his wife had been in Amasia for twelve years. It was six years since they had had their last holiday in England. Now they were going there, never to leave it again. "And to think--in six weeks we shall walk down Piccadilly!" cried Mrs. Price, the delight of anticipation in her voice. "It is just the same I suppose--the same crowds, the same lights and hurry?" They laughed like children. It was so good to think they would be in England again. It was a little cruel to show their joy in view of the new exiles. But six years away from England had filled them with irresistible longing. Their questions too were all of home. The political crisis--was it over? The new Premier, how long did they think he would be in power? They had a boy at Winchester--was the tone there still considered good? He was sixteen--his mother fetched a photograph from the drawer to show them. He was going into the consular service. And then Mrs. Price turned to the little boy standing beside Mrs. Dean. Until now, his whole attention had been divided between the novelty of his surroundings and the piece of cake he held in his hand. They hoped the summer heat would not be too intense for the child.