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company excepted, of course—and a stuffy tour leader who knows considerably less than I do. But the Turks have made it a rule that no Europeans can move about unless they are under the thumb of one of their guides, and this tour travels near several Druze villages I wish to visit. The Druze, a religious sect of Arab peoples, are my speciality—their lives and mine are entwined. Now, Miss Hamilton, you must tell me why you are here instead of buying chic dresses in Paris.”
    â€œYou must call me Julia. I’m here with my father, who is a solicitor and has business in Beirut. When I heard he was going, I coaxed him into taking me. It was all spur-of-the-moment.”
    â€œA solicitor?” Graham looked surprised and amused, as if he had just heard a delicious secret. “I gather your father knows people in high places. As he was getting into hiscarriage this morning, I overheard him give the address of the pasha, the ruler here in Beirut; one can’t go much higher than that. I can only feel sympathy for someone who must attempt business in a town where business was invented: It puts you at a disadvantage of several thousand years.”
    Then, as if on impulse, Graham said, “I have to confess, I recognized your father when I saw him board the ship with you. I’ll forgive you your little deceit.”
    Startled, I was embarrassed at having been caught. I wondered what Father would think when he learned Graham had seen through his disguise. And how, I wondered, did Graham know he was my father?
    Graham answered my question when he said, “I knew your father was with the Foreign Office because I heard him when he came to Oxford to give a talk to us students on the Ottoman Empire. I disagreed strongly with your father’s criticism of the Young Turks. I believe the Young Turk movement will bring democracy to Turkey and freedom to all the countries that Turkey now rules over with such tyranny: Armenia and Greece and the Arab countries.”
    There was so much emotion in Graham’s words, I had the wild thought that he might be a revolutionary himself.
    His face took on an angry flush. “I suppose your father is busy with cunning schemes for getting his hands on onemore bit of land for Britain and is eager to thwart any plans the Young Turks might have for bringing a constitutional government to the Ottoman Empire.”
    I was about to scold Graham for his unkind words about Father when he said, “Enough about politics. What shall we do today? If we’re going to be together, we might as well make a start. Perhaps we’ll find right off that we hate each other, in which event we won’t have to waste time on meaningless courtesies during the tour.”
    I was irritated by Graham’s remarks about Father, but I managed to say, “I understand there’s a mosque.” I knew very well there was one, for I had studied it in my guidebook.
    â€œMosques and churches and temples. One would think tourists were all mystics on an eternal religious pilgrimage. Come along, then.” The masterful way he took my arm and hurried me off made me wonder if our accidental meeting in the garden might have been part of a plan. I dismissed the idea as ridiculous, excited to be setting off on an adventure with someone so attractive.
    As we made our way down the Place des Canons, the street that divided the city of Beirut, Graham kept up a pleasant chatter—half humorous and half informative. The few women on the Place passed us like shadows, for theywere all in black, as if the whole country were in mourning. I don’t know why, but their sight took me back to Durham Place and all those years I was shut away from worlds like this one.
    There were coffeehouses along the Place, each one with its group of men sitting outside at small tables. As we passed, the men stopped their lively talk to look at us. I suppose they considered me a bold and wanton woman, walking as I