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 luxury of a "battle royal" with my tangled and dusty hair.

I was still only half awake and far too tired to think of les convenances, when a smiling crowd of excited and gesticulating Turks suddenly appeared on the platform. Truth to tell, the six-days-and-five-nights' journey seemed like an eternity. I had forgotten Smyrna—almost forgotten the war. Were these happy children the "enemies" of my country?

A tactful little bird now reminded me that Turks are not used to the vision of ladies "at the toilette," and it was, perhaps, a somewhat perverse form of gratitude that tempted me to fill my rubber basin from my host's bottle of Evian in order to wash my hands "under the table."

A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table.

Despite haste and discretion, however, I experienced an unusual sense of being dressed and clean, as I eventually stepped out into the daylight to make the acquaintance of Eski-Chéir.

I found the colonel on the platform talking with