be a complete ‘dragowoman,’ for she is learning Arabic from Omar and English from us fast.  In Janet’s house she only heard a sort of ‘lingua franca’ of Greek, Italian, Nubian and English.  She asked me ‘How piccolo bint?’ (How’s the little girl?) a fine specimen of Alexandrian.  Ross is here, and will dine with me to-night before starting by an express train which Ismail Pasha gives him.

On Thursday evening I rode to the Abbassieh, and met all the schoolboys going home for their Friday.  Such a pretty sight!  The little Turks on grand horses with velvet trappings and two or three sais running before them, and the Arab boys fetched—­some by proud fathers on handsome donkeys, some by trusty servants on foot, some by poor mothers astride on shabby donkeys and taking up their darlings before them, some two and three on one donkey, and crowds on foot.  Such a number of lovely faces—­all dressed in white European-cut clothes and red tarbooshes.

Last night we had a wedding opposite.  A pretty boy, about Maurice’s size, or rather less, with a friend of his own size, dressed like him in a scarlet robe and turban, on each side, and surrounded by men carrying tapers and singing songs, and preceded by cressets flaring.  He stepped along like Agag, very slowly and mincingly, and looked very shy and pretty.  My poor Hassan (donkey-driver) is ill—­I fear very ill.  His father came with the donkey for me, and kept drawing his sleeve over his eyes and sighing so heavily. ‘Yah Hassan meskeen! yah Hassan ibn!’ (Oh poor Hassan! oh Hassan my son!); and then, in a resigned tone, ‘Allah kereem’ (God is merciful).  I will go and see him this morning, and have a doctor to him ‘by force,’ as Omar says, if he is very bad.  There is something heart-rending in the patient, helpless suffering of these people.

Sunday.—­Abu Hassan reported his son so much better that I did not go after him, having several things to do, and Omar being deep in cooking a festin de Balthazar because Ross was to dine with me.  The weather is delicious—­much what we had at Bournemouth in summer—­but there is a great deal of sickness, and I fear there will be more, from people burying dead cattle on their premises inside the town.  It costs 100 gersh to bury one outside the town.  All labour is rendered scarce, too, as well as food dear, and the streets are not cleaned and water hard to get.  My sakka comes very irregularly, and makes quite a favour of supplying us with water.  All this must tell heavily on the poor.  Hekekian’s wife had seventy head of cattle on her farm—­one wretched bullock is left; and, of seven to water the house in Cairo, also one left, and that expected to die.  I wonder what ill-conditioned fellow of a Moses is at the bottom of it.  Hajjee Ali has just been here, and offers me his tents if I like to go up to Thebes and not live in a boat, so that I may not be dependent on getting a house there.  He is engaged