CHAPTER XIV
IN THE “TRAIN DE LUXE”—THE SUPREME GOOD FELLOWSHIP OF ENGLISH LAUGHTER—JOURNEYING TOWARDS THE CRADLE OF NEW TURKEY
It was well past ten when I woke next morning. Though the sun was blazing through the uncurtained windows, I had slept undisturbed.
A Battle Royal with my Tangled, Dusty Hair.
There had, of course, been no chance of “undressing for the night.” But I had been able to take off my boots, and having a whole compartment to myself, I was only too glad to take out my wire brush for the luxury of a “battle royal” with my tangled and dusty hair.
I was still only half awake and far too tired to think of les convenances, when a smiling crowd of excited and gesticulating Turks suddenly appeared on the platform. Truth to tell, the six-days-and-five-nights’ journey seemed like an eternity. I had forgotten Smyrna—almost forgotten the war. Were these happy children the “enemies” of my country?
A tactful little bird now reminded me that Turks are not used to the vision of ladies “at the toilette,” and it was, perhaps, a somewhat perverse form of gratitude that tempted me to fill my rubber basin from my host’s bottle of Evian in order to wash my hands “under the table.”
A Bottle of Evian—Under the Table.