“I beg your pardon,” said the Turk, turning round and smiling as he spoke in excellent English, “I think you will find we do, but we have not the use for them here that you have in England.”
“I—er—er—er. Bless my soul, sir! I beg your pardon,” cried the old lawyer. “I did not know you understood English, or—”
“Pray, say no more, sir,” said the Turkish gentleman gravely. And he turned to cross the street.
“Snubbed! Deserved it!” cried Mr Burne, taking off his straw hat, and doubling his fist, as if he were going to knock the crown out. “Let this be a lesson to you, Lawrence. Bless me! Thought I was among savages. Time I travelled.”
“You forgot that you were still amongst steam, and post-offices, and telegraph wires, and—”
“Bless me! yes,” cried Mr Burne; “and, look there, an English name up, and Bass’s pale ale. Astonishing!”
Just then the Greek guide stopped and pointed to a private house as being the English consul’s, and upon entering they were at once shown into a charmingly furnished room, in which were a handsome bronzed middle-aged gentleman, in earnest conversation with a tall masculine-looking lady with some pretensions to beauty, and a little easy-looking man in white flannel, a glass in one eye, and a very high shirt collar covered with red spots, as if a number of cochineal insects had been placed all over it at stated intervals and then killed.
He was smooth-faced all but a small moustache; apparently about thirty; plump and not ill-favoured, though his hair was cut horribly close; but a spectator seemed to have his attention taken up at once by the spotted collar and the eye-glass.
“Glad to see you, Mr Preston,” said the bronzed middle-aged man. “You too, Mr Burne. And how are you, Mr Grange? I hope you have borne the voyage well. Let me introduce you,” he continued, after shaking hands, “to our compatriots Mr and Mrs Charles Chumley. We can’t afford, out here, not to know each other.”
Mutual bowing took place, and the consul continued: