More advice is to look out of the right-hand window of the car for a first glimpse of the pyramids, the first sure proof that you are in Napoleon’s Egypt. After they are once found, it is easy for your eye to follow them through palm-trees and over mud villages until darkness interferes. Then you come to the station in Cairo, a hotbed of porters and dragomans, and through the confusion you finally reach Shepheard’s, on the street like a great show-window--all but the plate glass--full of odds and ends from all the world. New arrivals are handed in by the dragomans and porters. It is as if you climbed over the footlights to assist in the performance. You finally stand before the good-looking Mr. Bailer, at the back of the stage. If he thinks you will stand a room overlooking the stable-yard, you will get it. The next morning I moved to the sunny side, overlooking the garden, where a tame pelican walked among tall palm-trees. The dragoman who first lays hands on you claims you for his own. You will find him waiting for you in the morning. He will sell you antiques, will take you snipe-shooting. He knows when the dervishes will howl or whirl, or where there is a native wedding, to which he will take you. It may be the fame of Shepheard’s, or the magic name of Egypt, but it all has a wonderful charm. [Illustration: The Present Situation.] [Illustration: A Dealer in Antiquities.] The remains of Rameses and Seti are lying on their backs out in the Gizeh Museum, and there is a strong desire to hurry to them, in spite of the fact that they will keep. But the panorama in front of Shepheard’s is absorbing, and your first morning will most likely be spent in watching it. My first afternoon was spent with an evil-eyed dragoman whose pockets were filled with dirty cards and letters, all testimonials from former customers proving that he was, as he continually told me, the best dragoman in the business. He could recite some of [Illustration: The Bridge.] “Mother Goose,” but knew very little English besides. With him I drove through streets that might have been in Paris, and by barracks and sentries that might have been in London, to a river that could only be [Illustration: A Village on the Road to the Pyramids.] [Illustration: In the Fish-Market.] in Egypt. My carriage went between the two bronze lions and joined in the procession of camels across the bridge over the famous river to the Gizeh side, where tall trees meet overhead; then to a smaller bridge, more trees, quaint shipping, and a stucco palace, once a harem where some of Ismail’s wives lived, and now a museum, the temporary resting-place of those uneasy mummied heads that once wore Egypt’s crown; small mouse-colored [Illustration: Rameses the Great.]