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One day when drinking my daily coffee with Zia Bey, he handed 20,000 Turkish pounds to a French merchant. A policeman, he explained, “found this in your rifled safe.” The merchant was so astonished that he spoke to me about it, adding: “Would they have been returned to me in any other land?”

Every day, after calling upon the Vali, I used to visit Zia Bey. To the Vali, of course, I could speak in French, but to Zia Bey I seldom went further than a repetition of praise for M. Kemal Pasha. It is not words that count when the heart is following the dictates of truth.

At the hotel I could only be accommodated by the dismissal of another guest. Men were sleeping everywhere—in the drawing-room, sitting-rooms, bedrooms, three, four, and six in a room, grateful to find anywhere to lay their heads. To my lot fell one of the best rooms in the house, containing a sofa as well as a bed large enough for four. I felt very guilty, but what could I do? I was the only woman!

To this improvised hotel everyone in Smyrna comes sooner or later, if not for accommodation, at least for meals and “light” refreshment. The country, of course, is dry, but the guests walk round the laws as cleverly as they do in the U.S.A. Americans are, perhaps, the chief offenders, and seem always able to bring in with them whatever they require. If they are caught Naim has to pay the damages! “Poor things,” he remarked by way of comment, “they are so far from their homes.”