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 CHAPTER XXXII

CONSTANTINOPLE NO LONGER THE CAPITAL—THE HEART AND SPIRIT OF TURKEY ARE IN ANGORA

As our little cockle-shell reaches the busy quay at Constantinople, the veiled women collect their animals and carry them through the Custom-house. I am the only Britisher, yet the tall, well-built official rapidly scans my passport and signs it without moving a muscle, or showing the faintest surprise at my arrival by that boat, not even opening his lips in reply to my good-morning. Is this army etiquette? His kind face has been taught not to unbend. It seems a foolish way of encouraging foreigners to understand us. "You are not English," everyone declares, "dear lady, you have too much heart to be English."

"We English have hearts," is my reply, "but, for some reason, we must pretend we have none."

Someone wearing a fez, perhaps a Moslem, insists on taking me to the hotel, though I assure him that I am quite capable of carrying my little bag, and a few rugs over my arm. But he has seen Fethi Bey's letter, and nothing, clearly, will prevent him from mounting beside the driver and burdening himself with my belongings.

At Tokatlians' Hotel, however, the Armenian porter handed him the truly magnificent tip of two Turkish pounds. He assured me that others pay double that sum for the little trip from the boat to the hotel!

I see, at once, that there is a difference between Angora and Constantinople. In Anatolia no one would dream of thrusting his services upon his country's friend, or of accepting a two pound tip for so short a