Then I could see which way the wind blew. He seemed to be deliberately singing _at_ the picturesque trio--and the dark eyes of the lady of the _yashmak_ were lifted upward--in reverence, perhaps; but I hardly thought so. There was no doubt about the _mueddin's_ final glance, as he turned and retired from the gallery. I remained where I was until the _yashmak_ left the shop; and as she had to pass quite close to me in order to rejoin the waiting car, I had a good look at her. It was just an impression, of course, an impression of red lips under the white gauze, an oval Oriental outline, with very fine eyes--notably fine, where fine eyes are common--and a little exquisitely chiseled nose; a bewitching face. Just that one glimpse I had and a vague impression of rustling silk with the tap of high heels. A faint breath of musk still proclaimed itself above the less pleasing odors of the street; then, the female attendant having cuffed the slumbering Silenus into wakefulness, the car moved off and this _harêm_ lily vanished from the bazaar. I knew that my party was safe for another half an hour, at any rate, so I nipped along to Hassan's shop. Of course, he began brazenly by declaring that no ladies had been there that morning. I had expected it, and the attitude confirmed my suspicions. Presently, when his boy had made fresh coffee, and Hassan, from the black cabinet, had produced some real cigarettes, we got more intimate. There was a scarcity of European visitors that morning; and excepting one interruption by a party of four American ladies, I had Hassan to myself for half an hour. He raised his fat finger to his lips when I pressed my question, and rolled his eyes fearfully. "She is from the palace of Harûn Pasha," he whispered with more sidelong glances. "Ah! _effendim_, I fear...." We smoked awhile; then-- "The Pasha's wife?" I inquired. "It is the Lady Zohara," he said. This did not add greatly to my information; but I continued: "And the _mueddin_?" "Ah!--do not whisper it.... That is my brother, Saïd!" "He raises his eyes very high?" "Not so, _effendim_; it is she who raises her eyes. I fear--I fear for Saïd. The Pasha ... you have heard of him?" "I may have heard his name," I replied; "but I am quite unfamiliar with his reputation." Hassan shook his head gloomily. "He is the last of his race," he explained; "the race of the Khalîfs. He inhabits the ancient palace--but much has been rebuilt, and much added--in Old Cairo, close behind the Coptic Church...." "I did not know that such a palace even existed." Again Hassan raised his finger to his lips. "He is not like the other pashas," he said; "in the house of Harûn Pasha are observed to-day all the old customs as in the day of his great ancestor Harûn al-Raschîd." "But a motor-car!"