ain show any apprehension about his
former patient's state of mind, though I could see that he watched her
as closely as I did. The fresh breeze filled the sails, and the next
tack took us clear up to Yeni Mahalle on the European side; for the
little yacht was quick in stays, and, moreover, had a good hold on the
water, enabling her to beat quickly up against wind and current. Once
again I went about, and, running briskly across, made the little pier
below Anadoli Kavak, little more than three quarters of an hour after we
had started. We landed, and went up the green slope to the place where
the little coffee-shop stands under the trees. We intended to climb the
hill to the ruined castle. To my surprise, Professor Cutter suggested to
Madame Patoff that they should stay below, while the rest made the
ascent. He said he feared she would tire herself too much. But she would
not listen to him.

"I insist upon going," she said. "I am as strong as any of you. It is
quite absurd."

Cutter temporized by suggesting that we should have coffee before the
walk, and Chrysophrasia sank languidly down upon a straw chair.

"If the man has any loukoum, I could bear a cup of coffee," she
murmured. The man had loukoum, it appeared, and Chrysophrasia was
satisfied. We all sat down in a circle under the huge oak-tree, and
enjoyed the freshness and greenness of the place. The kaffeji, in loose
white garments and a fez, presently brought out a polished brass tray,
bearing the requisite number of tiny cups and two little white saucers
filled with pieces of loukoum-rahat, the Turkish national sweetmeat,
commonly called by schoolboys fig-paste.

"Why was I not born a Turk!" exclaimed Chrysophrasia. "This joyous life
in the open air is so intensely real, so profoundly true!"

"Life is real anywhere," remarked Cutter, with a smile. "The important
question is whether it is agreeable to the liver."

"Death is real, too," said Madame Patoff, in such a curious tone that we
all started slightly, as we had done in the boat. My nerves are good,
but I felt a weird horror of the woman stealing over me. The
imperturbable scientist only glanced at me, as though to remind me of
what he had said before. Then he took up the question.

"No, madam," he said, coldly. "Death is a negation, almost a universal
negation. It is not real; it only devours reality, and then denies it.
You can see that life is to breathe, to think, to eat, to drink, to
love, to fea