we had ours. They had their tekhé and we had our schools; they had their mosques and we had our churches; they had their Punch and Judy shows and we had our theatres; they had their music and we had our own; they had their language and we clung jealously to ours. Our own differences we did not bring before the Turkish law, but before our own Church. Neither in sorrow nor in pleasure did we mingle. Turkey is the only country in the world where one may travel for months without using the language of the country, with such great tenacity do the conquered races cling to their own. Indeed, in order to live comfortably in Constantinople, one must know Greek, not Turkish.
After I had played with Turkish girls for two years, had been in and out of their homes as a friend, and liked them, one morning my grand-*aunt Kalliroë came to our house in a great state of excitement and worry.
"Go fetch your father, dear," she cried to me, "and tell him that it is of the utmost importance—of the utmost national importance."
Aunt Kalliroë was an old lady, and the last of her type I remember. She was of an old Phanariot family, and to her the traditions of Phanar—the Greek portion of Constantinople—were as important as her religious duties. She always dressed in the old fashion of Phanar, wearing black lace, turban-like, on her head, a
