you” (I had been wondering to whom I should give it, but I need not have worried), and patted me on the back as she pushed me into the room where the bride sat on a throne amid piles upon piles of bouquets.  She had a heavy, pale face covered with powder, eyes and eyebrows blackened, nails stained with henna, and a figure much too fat.  She wore a garment made of something which looked like mosquito-netting heavily embroidered in gold, which hung like a rag.  Her jewels were magnificent, but the effect of all this gorgeousness was rather spoiled to the artistic eye by her grotesque surroundings.

After we had visited the bride we were approached by a little yellow woman in blue satin, who asked me in French if I would not like to see the chambre a coucher, and I said I would.  We were then conducted to a room all hung in blue satin embroidered in red.  Lambrequins, chair-covers, bed-covers, pillows, bed-hangings—­all the careful work of the bride.  Then we were invited to inspect the presents in another room, which were all in glass cabinets.  Dozens of amber and jewelled cigarette-holders and ornaments of every description, most magnificent, but of no earthly use—­as wedding presents sometimes are.

Then we came down-stairs, and had all sorts of things at a banquet, and heard Arab music, and sat around in the room, where our men met us, and feeling rather bored, we decided to go home.  There we were wise, for we met quite by accident the procession of the bridegroom.  He was escorted through the streets by a band, and two rows of young men carrying candelabra under glass shades.  We turned and drove along beside him and watched him, but he was so nervous we felt that it was rather a mean thing to do.  He was a handsome fellow, but never have I seen a man who looked so unhappy and ill at ease.  When he entered the house he proceeded to the door of the bride’s room, where he threw down silver and gold as backsheesh until her women were satisfied; then he was permitted to enter.

As we drove away for the second time I remembered that they were having “torchlight tattoo” at the barracks, and we decided to stop for a moment.

“It won’t seem bad to see some soldiers who can march, for the English soldiers are magnificently trained,” I said, as we stopped to buy our tickets.  A young officer whom I had met heard my remark, and smiled and saluted.

“The English soldiers are the best in the world, aren’t they?” he said, teasingly.

“Undoubtedly,” I replied, tranquilly.

He looked a little staggered.  He had encountered my belligerent spirit before, and he did not expect me to agree with him.

“You—­you, an American, admit that?” he said.

“Surely,” I replied.  “But why?” he persisted, most unwisely, for it gave me my chance.

“Because the Americans are the only ones who ever whipped them!  American soldiers can beat even the best!”