I repeatedly expressed the desire to be shown the interior of a Mussulman home, jealously kept hidden from the eyes of the curious, in order to see the domestic side of Turkish life. Mme. Lebedeff got the permission for my cousin Zoe and me to visit the harem of one of the Sultan’s aide-de-camps, who, like all the modern Turks belonging to the upper classes, had only one wife. After having crossed the Stamboul Bridge, we took a small steamboat which brought us to Scutari. The master of the harem met us on the quay, and, touching his forehead to us, led us to his home, built round a courtyard. We were shown into a large hall, furnished chiefly with sofas draped in different coloured silks along the walls, with lots of cushions and oriental rugs; cigarettes were lavishly strewn on low tables before them. We were cordially welcomed by the Sultaness of the harem, a pretty plump woman saturated with perfume, her cheeks painted red and white, her lips of an unnatural crimson. She wore a fantastic apple-green dress with a broad silver belt which drew attention to the amplitude of her waist, and a small red velvet cap richly embroidered. Our hostess spoke very good French, and seemed very gay, though in the higher ranks of life harem ladies live a dull existence. It is a curious thing that, though they are never seen in public, they take an engrossing interest in their personal appearance, and dress and jewels absorb most of their time and attention. Rouge and other cosmetics are common in harems, and the examination of garments and ornaments is the first and almost the sole form of entertainment when visiting or receiving female friends. Our hostess was surrounded by pretty slave-girls, Circassians for the most part. We were asked to be seated, and soon an enormous old woman, bursting with fat—our hostess’s mother-in-law—came in. She wore a dress of crying colours, and a bonnet trimmed with crotcheted flowers. This hippopotamus was treated with great deference. At her appearance everybody rose. She was followed by her daughter with her two little girls, in European dress, and her son, a fine boy of twelve, with fair curly hair, a pretty piece of diminutive manhood dressed like a grown-up, in the last Parisian fashion, his tie fastened with a large emerald pin; a very independent-looking little fellow, who was addressed reverentially as “Bey.” Soon after, a slave appeared, a large bundle of keys hanging at her girdle, carrying a large tray covered with a green velvet napkin embroidered in gold, heaped with cakes and preserves flavoured with attar of roses, nauseously sweet, presented with a glass of water to wash them down. A negress followed, handing round coffee, served a la Turca, in tiny little cups like little egg-shells supported in filigree silver, and behind came a mulatto girl holding a silver censer. I felt as if I were at the opera, and the curtain had just gone up on a brilliant act of “Aida.” Presently