CHAPTER XVI
ANGORA II.—AT THE HOME OF MY KIND AND COURTEOUS HOST
The next morning we breakfast, "when I am ready,"
which is 8.30. My host's face beams with delight,
and the generous menu could hardly fail to put
"the guest" in good spirits—toast and boiled eggs
(my allowance being half a dozen a day), biscuits and
cheese, olives, and glasses of tea.
In Nationalist houses "reading the papers" and discussing foreign telegrams have become almost a religious rite. This morning, clearly, there is "good news"! The very air we breathe seems lighter, faces look less anxious, men are greeting each other in hopeful tones! What can it be?
Of course, I am not kept long in suspense—"Mr. Lloyd George is a fallen angel!" Well, certainly, I shall not go into mourning; but, at the same time, the animosity thus so sharply revealed makes one sad for one's own country.
With their inborn tact, my friends suggest that we all go to the Pasha's to celebrate, not the fall of a "Lost Leader," but the prospect of the Conservatives' return to power.
To them, as in England, the change is welcome for the long vista of possibilities it opens up. Shall we resume the Beaconsfield traditions without Gladstone's sentimentality? Will Mr. Bonar Law find means to justify our faith? It is obviously early days yet for any assurance in prophecy.
Yet, if the exit of Mr. Lloyd George delighted the Continent and the Near East—as if a modern Nero had
