Constantinople, like a dish of soap bubbles, ethereal against the sky. One morning Roger and I escape together for a painting expedition to the hills, leaving Clive and Harry to continue their tour of historic monuments alone. We set our easels in an olive grove, delighting in the silver-green leaves and darker jade of the unripe fruit, the rusts and ochers of the parched earth. An old man appears on a donkey and dismounts to watch us work. Roger, ebullient as ever, engages him in a conversation that consists mainly of gestures and a handful of frequently repeated words. When we have finished painting, the old man beckons us to follow him. He indicates that he wishes to offer us something to drink. We pack our things and accompany him to a low stone house. The man disappears inside and returns almost immediately with his wife. He mimes that he would like us to sketch her. We oblige, glad for this opportunity to rest. It is cool inside the house after the searing sunshine. I take out my sketchbook and begin to draw the woman. The old man brings a pot of coffee and four small, decorated glasses. He serves the coffee black with several spoonfuls of sugar. It is so sweet I can hardly drink it. I finish my portrait and show it to the woman. She claps her hands in rapture, thrilled with the likeness I have caught. Then she takes me outside to the well so that I can wash. The water is deliciously cold and I let it splash over my fingers. I dip the edge of my scarf in the water and wipe it over my face and neck. It is only as I am drying my hands that I notice my ring is gone. I stare at the slight red mark round my finger where the ring should be and realize it must have slipped off in the icy water. My consternation brings the men outside. The old man fetches a mirror and we peer into the well, hoping to see the jewels flash in the reflected light. After several minutes of fruitless searching the woman bursts into tears. I am forced to comfort her, pretend that it does not matter. Roger tries to cheer me with descriptions of all the wonderful rings he has seen for sale in the local bazaar. He promises to buy me another. I dare not confess that the ring I have lost was Clive’s engagement ring.