long ago, I had lost my father. We had an orgy of tears, which cleared the atmosphere, and helped the barometer to rise. The courage of youth returned to us.
"What do you intend to do?" I asked.
"I thought of dying," she said simply, but "I don't want to. I hate to die. Life is so interesting, and I am so healthy." Inconsequently she added: "Come and see my trousseau."
No French girl could have had a Frenchier one. No Parisian a more Parisian one. If the father was imposing an Anatolian husband upon her, he was generous in his supply of European accessories. She and I forgot our troubles in admiring and gloating over the creations just arrived from Paris.
"And now look!" she cried, in a tone of loathing. She opened a closet and drew forth a chest, richly inlaid. From its heart she took several garments: they were Anatolian—even more Oriental than if they had been Turkish. She threw them on the floor, and stamped upon them. "His grandmother is insulting me with these. She thinks that is the way I dress—I, a European to my finger-tips."
I picked up the despised garments and examined them with curiosity mingled with admiration. The straight, stiff tunics of home-spun silks, the jackets reaching below the knees, spun
