it often seems as if the less confidence a man has in his wife, the more in love he remains with her.
On the second morning of my arrival, nature outside was making herself beautiful as if to pose for her portrait. We had finished our breakfast, and were sitting on a couch together when her husband came in, a dark cloud on his forehead. He gave his wife a severe look, which Semmeya met with the candour of an angel.
"I am delighted to see you so early, my Bey Effendi," she said sweetly. "I hope you have slept well," and as he remained standing, she continued: "Won't you sit down by us, my Effendi?"
"Beauty!" thundered the man, "why did you misbehave yesterday afternoon while you were out driving?"
An expression of utter amazement overspread her features.
"Don't trouble yourself to deny it—you know that it is true," the husband continued, striving to master his anger.
She shrugged her slim shoulders, and the impertinent movement was attractive. Intrinsically she was not a beautiful woman, but she had charm, and the man speaking to her was in love with her. And she knew it.
"You know you did it," he persisted.
Impatiently she tapped the floor with her satin-
