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Lunch, however, had been served for her by a “Catholic,” who cooked Turkish dishes to perfection. “Catholic” is now the last word in “Nationality,” covering a multitude of “pasts,” and saving the “Christian” from having to answer awkward questions.

The “Catholic” who waits on me at the hotel was an upholsterer in quite a large way of business. The sewing-woman, whom I have occasionally employed for odd jobs, though a Greek, is also “Catholic.” In Angora these derelicts are self-styled “Catholic Turks.”

I have boarded the warship, despite the captain’s fear of a woman’s pen. What would he find to say about my real intentions? Most of us, happily, can look on sailors of all nations, as I do, absolutely without prejudice. For here, at least, none can capture our laurels, and all the world loves a British sailor.

Amidst the beautiful fittings of his luxurious cabin, I was received by the captain with every mark of the courtesy that is second nature to the real English gentleman. He was a naval man to his finger-tips, stamped all over with Nelson’s magic call to “Duty.” For his magnificent achievements in the war, his V.C. was indeed richly deserved; and yet, I wondered, is it the wisest policy to expose this real “personage” to the kind of actually trivial irregularities which in a town like Smyrna a too formal officialism may so easily mistake for grave affronts to our national prestige?