me with a queer smile.

"I thought you did not understand French," she said. "I observe you
have a pretty good Parisian accent." Then the full significance of my
blunder came to me and I felt like the classic capricornus, meaning
goat. She said she was tired of the Folies that night and suggested a
drive. I called a careta and as we were driving down the boulevard I
said to her:

"Is this existence always pleasant? Is it not as it was with that
officer, often unendurable?"

She replied in a bantering tone, only half hiding a hurt undernote.

"I'm getting used to it," she said. "A Turkish pig is no worse than
an English cad or a German boor."

The typical, philandering Broadway or Bond Street masher makes the
physiological mistake of undervaluing the innate sense of decency
inherent in every woman. Gentle courtesy and manners impress a
courtesan by reason of the novelty. The inverse is often useful in
dealing with a pampered society woman.

Much to the annoyance of the Turkish officers, I often thereafter took
the pretty Cecelia away from the Folies, after her performance, for a
drive, and I began to compare her small confidences with certain bits
of information that Kim had given me. I knew, or I could pretty well
guess, that she was not staying in Constantinople, enduring the
insults of those Turkish officers, simply for the money she could earn
as a dancer. Then I made my second dramatic play for confidence. I