“Is it not practically the same? You speak one language.”
I started up, almost in anger. “Never dare to say such a thing again. I might as well ask whether you were a Senegali. The language is the same. Individual Americans, some parts of their country, I consider, are magnificent, but their Government!”
“Will any Government bear close inspection?”
“Perhaps not.”
“You regard the States precisely as I should expect from an Englishwoman. But, after all, what has Great Britain done in Turkey, after ‘letting us down’ over ‘reparations’—perfidious Albion!”
“I may be dense,” I returned (somewhat evasively, I admit), “but what exactly is the connection between Syria and M. Kemal Pasha?”
“Everything and nothing,” was the characteristically enigmatic reply.
“I take that as courteous French for ‘mind your business,’ as charming a phrase as your Pourquoi-parceque.”
He supposed that “I had been sent to Angora by the British Government,” and I promised to send him notes on my conversation with “the authorities” at Smyrna.
“Naturally,” the colonel persisted, “they would pretend they had nothing to do with your undertaking; but do they not pay your expenses?”