They greeted him guardedly but Mr. Kuvetli was enthusiastic.
“It is good morning, eh? You sleep well? I look forward to our excursion this afternoon. Permit me to present Monsieur and Madame Mathis. Monsieur Graham.”
There was handshaking. Mathis was a sharp-featured man of fifty or so with lean jaws and a permanent frown. But his smile, when it came, was good and his eyes were alive. The frown was the badge of his ascendancy over his wife. She had bony hips and wore an expression which said that she was determined to keep her temper however sorely it were tried. She was like her voice.
“Monsieur Mathis,” said Mr. Kuvetli, whose French was a good deal more certain than his English, “is from Eskeshehir, where he has been working with the French railway company.”
“It is a bad climate for the lungs,” said Mathis. “Do you know Eskeshehir, Monsieur Graham?”
“I was there for a few minutes only.”
“That would have been quite enough for me,” said Madame Mathis. “We have been there three years. It was never any better than the day we arrived.”
“The Turks are a great people,” said her husband. “They are hard and they endure. But we shall be glad to return to France. Do you come from London, Monsieur?”
“No, the North of England. I have been in Turkey for a few weeks on business.”
“To us, war will be strange after so many years. They say that the towns in France are darker than the last time.”