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There is a story by Nasreddin Hodja, the great Turkish wit, which happily illustrates this racial characteristic. The Anatolian lived in constant terror of a vociferous wife, though no doubt he often reflected that there were worse women in the world. One day, however, someone told him that she had fallen into the river, and was being carried away by the tide. “Don’t worry,” said he, with a stoic’s calm, “she will go against it. She always does.”

On another occasion, this man of wit had carried a basket of figs to the lame Timur, on an official visit of respect. Timur amused himself by throwing the fruit in the Hodja’s face; but at each blow he cried out: “Allah is Great.” When asked why he so often praised God, he answered: “My wife wanted me to bring you apples.” Since Timur was privileged, if it pleased him, to strike the guest, he “thanked God” that he had chosen the smaller and lighter fruit.

As for my own mission in Malta, I had really come to buy a British flag!, as Messrs. Cook’s manager at Naples had supplied “everything” but just that.