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 "And why not?" I answered. "They learn ours."

"Oh, that's quite different. Besides, Turkish is much too difficult."

I reminded him of Mrs. John Burns. When her husband became a Cabinet Minister, a certain fine lady decided to amuse herself by inviting "the man's wife" to tea. Her note ran: "Do excuse my not having called on you. It is so far for me to come from Mayfair to Battersea." Mrs. Burns replied: "It is exactly the same distance from Battersea to Mayfair."

"That is a charming story, but it will not persuade me to learn Turkish."

The Prime Minister, for some reason wearing a fez in place of the picturesque kalpak, brought me apologies for Fethi Bey's absence. "It is riday, and he has not been to the office all day." We had all forgotten that it was the Moslem Sunday.

"Now we are going to be friends," I said later to Rauf Bey, "we must arrange 'the same day' for our prayers of thanksgiving for peace."

"It is you who will have to change," he replied, smiling; "you must learn to go our ways now."

Here, indeed, at this far-away little station, one seemed to be entering some kindly "brotherhood." Everyone was wringing the colonel's hand, embracing the general and the cheik. I felt, too, that my fellow-passengers were telling them about "a new member" they wanted to introduce, saying heartily: "She will soon know all about the rules of our club." Everyone here plainly "stood for" the same ideals. We are talking like friends already, without the formality of an introduction. We are all working for a definite and well-defined goal. Houses are scarcely needed for hospitality in a town with this atmosphere of camaraderie.

I found myself chatting with the Prime Minister as though we were old members of the same club. When, a few minutes later, I described the unconscious influence to the colonel, he only said to his friends: "See how quickly she catches the atmosphere of this delightful place!"