I had just begun to indulge in a violent fit of coughing, induced by the density of this artificial atmosphere, when in walked a slave to announce the intended presence of the gentlemen of the family, and in an instant the whole scene was changed. The two Turkish ladies whom I have already mentioned as being on a visit in the house rushed from the room barefooted, in as little time as it would have required for me to disengage myself from the tandour; the less agile _massaljhe_ covered her face with a thick veil, and concealed herself behind the door—the Juno-like daughter (one of the most majestic women I ever remember to have seen, although very far from one of the tallest) flung a handkerchief over her head, and fastened it beneath her chin: while the son’s wife caught up a _feridjhe_, or cloak, and withdrew, muffled amid its folds, to her own apartment. The elder lady was the only one of the party undisturbed by the intelligence: she never raised her eyes from the carpet, but continued inhaling the aroma of the “scented weed,” gravely grasping her long pipe, her lips pressed against its amber mouthpiece, and her brilliant rings and diamond-studded bracelet flashing in the light. In a few minutes, the aged father of the family was squatted down immediately opposite to my seat, smothered in furs, and crowned with the most stately looking turban I had yet seen: on one side of him stood a slave with his chibouk, which his wife had just filled and lighted, and on the other his elder son, holding the little brass dish in which the pipe-bowl is deposited to protect the carpet. Near him, on another cushion, lay the tobacco-bag of gold-embroidered cachemire, from which the said son was about to regale himself, after having supplied the wants of his father: and a few paces nearer to the door reclined the handsome Soliman Effendi, the adopted son to whom I have already alluded.