Her face was droll and piquant. Her eyes possessed infinite capacity for expression. That I loved her better than anyone else at the time was undeniable. And only a few minutes ago I had been told to hate her race.
I entwined my fingers with hers. "Do you love me, Kiamelé?" I asked.
"After Allah, I love none better."
"I wish you did love me better than Allah," I said, "for then I could make you a Christian."
She shook her head drolly; "No, no, I like Allah."
"But then," I protested, "if you like Allah, you must hate me."
"Hate you! You, whom I love better than my heart!"
"You've got to; for I am a Greek, and you are a Turk."
She folded me in her arms. "What a funny baby—and this on your birthday! Now don't talk foolishness. Show me your presents."
From under my pillow, where I had tucked it, I produced the little flag.
She gazed at it, her head cocked on one side.
"What's this?"
"This," I said with emphasis, "is the flag of my country—and my birthday present."
"What a funny present," she murmured. "And is this all the grand old gentleman gave you?"
