My father opened his cigarette case, and offered her a cigarette, for all the women of her generation smoked.
She selected one, and examined it closely. “I am gratified at least to see that you smoke what is made by your countrymen, and not Turkish cigarettes.”
My father laughed. “Why, auntie, there is not a Turkish cigarette-maker in all Turkey. All the Turkish cigarettes are made by Greeks.”
Aunt Kalliroë took a puff or two; then, for once, on the defensive, she observed: “All decent things are made by Greeks—isn’t that so?”
“I suppose so.”
“You ought not to ‘suppose so,’” she cried, again on the offensive; “you ought to be certain. Christian God, what are we coming to? Is this the patriotism to be expected of the men who must try to free your great church from the Mussulman profaning?”
“Tell me, how do you propose to settle the Spathary matter?” my father asked, reverting to the less dangerous topic. “If Baky shouldn’t buy it, how would you keep off other Turks who might wish to buy? Your community is an old-fashioned one. The younger generation of Greeks is moving away from it; and only rich Turks will buy the big old Greek homesteads.”
“I propose to buy it myself,” she thundered, “and move into it, and sell my own house to the Bishop of Heraclea, who wants it.”
“How much does he offer for your house?”
“Four thousand pounds.”