He was a huge heavy-bellied Turk with a sharpness in his dark eyes that boded ill for anyone who offended him.
The Duke had ordered some coffee and a bottle of wine and, when they came, they were both undrinkable.
Harry, looking at what the other people in the restaurant were having said,
“You know what we ought to have ordered?”
“What is that?” Nancy enquired.
“It’s a sherbet which is, I read somewhere, a peculiar drink made by the Turks.”
“What does it contain?” Nancy asked.
“Lemon, sugar, amber and a number of other ingredients, but I doubt if we would find it very palatable.”
“I personally have no intention of trying it,” the Duke said firmly. “Let’s go back to the yacht. We were warned not to eat and drink in Constantinople, so we will have no excuse if we make ourselves ill.”
