at the nearest point to my host's house, which even he could not reach, and walked on to find the servants had all disappeared, no doubt to the Mosque, and the family were not at home! Being in Turkey I did not hesitate to step down the road and knock at the first door I came to, which was of plain deal, with the usual huge lock (quite a foot long) and picturesque knocker. A thin-faced woman appeared to welcome me, and, without thinking, I fell back on my stock greeting: "Mustapha Kemal Pasha, Chok Guzel!" Accepting my muddy boots without demur, she smilingly led me into her little two-roomed cabin: on one side, the sleeping-room with its bed and well-cushioned divan; on the other, her simple kitchen. When she had tucked me up on the Divan, and given me coffee and cigarettes, I did my best at conversation, and by friendly signs tried to convey my gratitude. "England is a big country . . . M. Kemal's victory splendid . . . cold weather outside," my eyes and hands said.
If she did not exactly understand what was in my mind, she was polite enough to seem thoroughly interested. I sat on till I could hear the servants arriving at my host's house, and with another supply of coffee, she smiled me farewell, without the slightest appearance of having resented my lengthy intrusion. They are hospitable in Anatolia!
Another person I met with pleasure at the Assembly was Hamdoullah Soubhi Bey. He is a distinguished writer and orator of about thirty-five, whose white hair offers a striking contrast to the alert youthfulness of his face and expression. He has spoken "cultured" French from the cradle; as, indeed, so many women of the upper classes know that language far better than Turkish. Zeyneb uses French in writing to Halidé Hanoum, being, no doubt, unwilling to trust her Turkish to so brilliant a writer.
It must have been Hamdoullah Soubhi whom I heard, about ten years ago, plead so eloquently for
