Kashan, which stands on a vast plain about two thousand feet above sea-level, is picturesque and unusually clean for an Eastern town.  The bazaar is a long one, and its numerous caravanserais finer even than those of the capital.  The manufacture of silk [F] and copperware is extensive; but, as usual, one saw little in the shops, en evidence , but shoddy cloth and Manchester goods, and looked in vain for real Oriental stuffs and carpets.  I often wondered where on earth they were to be got, for the most persistent efforts failed to produce the real thing.  I often passed, on the road, camel and mule-cloths that made my mouth water, so old were their texture and delicate their pattern and colouring, but the owners invariably declined, under any circumstances, to part with them.

Kashan will ever be associated in my mind with the fact that I there saw the prettiest woman it was my luck to meet in Persia.  The glimpse was but a momentary one, but amply sufficed to convince me that those who say that all Persian women are ugly (as many do) know nothing-whatever about it.

It was towards sunset, in one of the caravanserais, to which, hot and tired with the long dusty ride, I came for a quiet smoke and a cup of coffee.  The sensation of absolute repose was delicious after the heat and glare, the stillness of the place unbroken save for the plash of a marble fountain, and, outside, the far-off voices of the “muezzims,” calling the faithful to evening prayer.  From the blue dome, with its golden stars and white tracery, the setting sun, streaming in through coloured glass, threw the softest shades of violet and ruby, emerald and amber, upon the marble pavement.  The stalls around were closed for the night; all save one, a “manna” [G] shop.  Its owner, a white-turbaned old Turk, and myself were the sole inmates of the caravanserai.  Even my “kafedji” [H] had disappeared, though probably not without leaving instructions to his neighbour to see that I did not make off with the quaint little silver coffee-cup and nargileh.

It was here that I saw the “belle” of Kashan, and of Persia, for aught I know—­a tall slim girl, dressed, not in the hideous bag-like garments usually affected by the Persian female, but soft white draperies, from beneath which peeped a pair of loose baggy trousers and tiny feet encased in gold-embroidered slippers.  Invisible to her, I made every effort, from my hiding-place behind a projecting stall, to catch a glimpse of her face, but, alas! a yashmak was in the way—­not the thin gauzy wisp affected by the smart ladies of Cairo and Constantinople, but a thick, impenetrable barrier of white linen, such as the peasant women of Mohammedan countries wear.  Who could she be?  What was she doing-out unattended at this late hour?

I had almost given up all hope of seeing her features, when Fortune favoured me.  As the old Turk dived into the recesses of his shop to attend to the wants of his fair customer, the latter removed her veil, revealing, as she did so, one of the sweetest and fairest faces it has ever been my good fortune to look upon.  A perfectly oval face, soft delicate complexion, large dark eyes full of expression, a small aquiline nose, but somewhat large mouth, and the whitest and smallest of teeth.  Such was the apparition before me.  She could not have been more than sixteen.