One side of the Arab is rather unpleasant, and let it be said at once that it applies more to those who have come in contact with Europeans than to others. I refer to their dealings with European women. Their own are sacred subjects not to be mentioned, whose names and position are respected, but the European woman, and chiefly American and English women, do not share the same regard. This again is greatly due to the foolish attitude of a minority of Anglo-Saxon women who come to the country and are carried away by the glamour of the surroundings, by the starlit nights and the graceful robes of their admirers. If only they could see these men, as I have sometimes in Europe, in bowler hats, they would shudder at the contrast. Now they only see them in their robes under the African sky and—well, they fall very easily. The only altercation I have had with my Arab friends has been on this subject. A common remark one often hears is: “_Oh, les Anglaises!_” or “_Oh, les Americaines!_” and a knowing wink. French women and Italian have not this reputation, and what is so lamentable is that through the fact of a few of our race acting in this way, believing they are far from home and unnoticed, these morals are attributed to us in general. There is little else to add about the Arab; some of these remarks have been elaborated in subsequent chapters, other points dealing with the superstitious side of the character have been raised. One little story to illustrate the childish side of their nature seems appropriate here: I was sitting one evening some years ago in the Casino at Biskra with a _caïd_ friend of mine. As we sat sipping our coffee an Englishwoman, whom I knew vaguely, came in, and the _caïd_ pointed her out to me excitedly, asking many questions about her. I gave him all the information I could, and it then transpired that he was deeply in love with her, but that as she could not speak any French their conversation was somewhat limited. He sat for a while and then, turning, asked me rather diffidently if I would teach him a few words which would express to the object of his passion all he felt. I was rather amused at his anxious tone and laughingly gave him the following formula: “I love you. “Kiss me. “Forgive me. “Forget me.” He repeated it again and again until he had got it quite fixed in his mind, and then left me, presumably to offer it to the lady. I did not see my friend again nor the lady, so I do not know how the courtship, based on my nine words, fared, but one day some years after this incident I was reading a novel, written also long after the little English lesson, by an author who could not have known of the incident; the scene was laid at Biskra; a fictitious _agha_ was speaking: . . . “I am learning English,” he said gently; “tell me, please, if my pronunciation is correct.” And in a curiously indefinable accent he proceeded to recite the little set piece that some one had mischievously taught him: “Love me.