that she will go to Cairo and complain to Effendina himself of the unfair drafting for soldiers—­her only son taken, while others have bribed off.  She’ll walk in this heat all the way, unless she succeeds in frightening the Moudir, which, as she is of the more spirited sex in this country, she may possibly do.  You see these Saeedes are a bit less patient than Lower Egyptians.  The sakkas can strike, and a woman can face a Moudir.

You would be amused at the bazaar here.  There is a barber, and on Tuesdays some beads, calico, and tobacco are sold.  The only artizan is—­a jeweller!  We spin and weave our own brown woollen garments, and have no other wants, but gold necklaces and nose and earrings are indispensable.  It is the safest way of hoarding, and happily combines saving with ostentation.  Can you imagine a house without beds, chairs, tables, cups, glasses, knives—­in short, with nothing but an oven, a few pipkins and water-jars, and a couple of wooden spoons, and some mats to sleep on?  And yet people are happy and quite civilized who live so.  An Arab cook, with his fingers and one cooking-pot, will serve you an excellent dinner quite miraculously.  The simplification of life possible in such a climate is not conceivable unless one has seen it.  The Turkish ladies whom I visit at Karnac have very little more.  They are very fond of me, and always want me to stay and sleep, but how could I sleep in my clothes on a mat-divan, poor spoiled European that I am?  But they pity and wonder far more at the absence of my ‘master.’  I made a bad slip of the tongue and said ‘my husband’ before Abdul Rafiah, the master of the house.  The ladies laughed and blushed tremendously, and I felt very awkward, but they turned the tables on me in a few minutes by some questions they asked quite coolly.

I hardly know what I shall have to do.  If the heat does not turn out overpowering, I shall stay here; if I cannot bear it, I must go down the river.  I asked Omar if he could bear a summer here, so dull for a young man fond of a little coffee-shop and gossip, for that, if he could not, he might go down for a time and join me again, as I could manage with some man here.  He absolutely cried, kissed my hands, and declared he was never so happy as with me, and he could not rest if he thought I had not all I wanted.  ‘I am your memlook, not your servant—­your memlook.’  I really believe that these people sometimes love their English masters better than their own people.  Omar certainly has shown the greatest fondness for me on all occasions.

April 7, 1864:  Mrs. Ross

To Mrs. Ross.  LUXOR, April 7, 1864.

Dearest Janet,