Two names at such a moment should be recalled to
grate- ful remembrance: the names of Curzon and of Venizelos. Did Ismet Pasha, now InOnii, I wonder, allow his mind the other night to ffick back across the years ; to meet again the great antagonists whom he knew? Did he recall those pro- tracted sessions in the Hotel du Chateau at Ouchy, those tense interviews in Lord Curzon's sitting-room at the Beau- Rivage? Did he remember that last appalling evening which witnessed the rupture of the first Conference of Lausanne ; that over-heated sitting-room with its white and green furniture ; the sound of packing cases being nailed down in the corridor outside ; and Lord Curzon slowly ex- tracting his vast baronial watch from his pocket—" It is now eight twenty-five, Your Excellency, and my train leaves for London at ten minutes past nine. You have half an hour in which to save your country." That scene will forever be engraved upon my mind. Ismet straining forward, as deaf men peer forwards, from a small white chair with Riza Nour shouting beside him. Monsieur Bompard, the French dele- gate, fiddling nervously with his watch-chain. And Lord Curzon, reclining in a vast fauteuil, with his red boxes already locked and strapped around him, and his leg stretched out upon the green baize rest.
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