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“I will show you,” I said, as we were all assembled for farewell, “that I am right, and you are all wrong. Though my country may turn on Turkey, she will be good to me.”

It was nearly seven o’clock next morning before the officer came for me. It was so late that our horses had to be whipped up to a smart pace over the bumpy road to the station. My conductor had been so anxious about all arrangements, that he had packed the food for our five or seven days’ trip, and entrusted it to a chauffeur, who was perverse enough not to wake up in time.

This certainly might be regarded as an omen of ill-luck, and even as I got into the train, between the officer and a cheik (who had been professor of Arabic at Oxford), the South American stepped forward to ask whether, after all, I had not better return with him.

“And show the Turks I do not trust them.... Never. Besides, this gentleman has lived in Oxford, and is therefore almost a compatriot. Tell my friends in Smyrna that I am perfectly well and happy, and that I am going to have a lovely time.”