We clambered down a steep bank to which a boat was moored to cross over to the other shore, and dismissed our carriage, having decided to return by steamer. We picked our way through a dingy side-street paved with pointed stones, between which weeds grew, and came up to a house of dubious appearance, with narrow iron-barred windows like those of a prison. At the sound of our bell the door was opened by an eunuch, who took us into a large room with an enormous bedstead, hung with green and gold brocade, standing in the middle. An odour of attar of roses filled the apartment. My curiosity was awfully excited; I expected to see beautiful “houris,” but was greatly disappointed. First of all appeared the Pasha’s favourite wife, looking rather pretty, with a flower in her jet-black hair, her fingers stained with henna, and saturated with perfume so strong as to make you sneeze. Behind came the second wife, an insignificant little thing, followed by the third would-be “houri,” a wrinkled old guy. For a quarter-of-an hour we stared speechlessly at each other, then losing patience, I asked our interpreter when the other nine wives would make their appearance, and she replied they were all out walking but would soon be back, but I was sure it was all a fib and that they were nothing but a myth. After a while the wife No. 1 began to talk to our interpreters in a low voice, after which they came up and told us that we had to be presented to the master of the house. Here was something that didn’t enter our programme, but we had to undergo the ordeal which seems to be the custom here. We were taken into a big room and ushered into the presence of the Pasha, a white-bearded patriarch, wearing an enormous white turban, who was sitting on a low divan upon a pile of cushions, with his legs tucked under him. A little nigger boy, one of his numerous offsprings, was playing at his feet with a wooden horse. The Pasha signalled for us to be seated, and fixed Zoe and me with a long stare over his spectacles, seeming to approve of us. He called one of our interpreters and asked if Zoe and I were sisters, and ordered her to tell us that he wanted to keep us both in his harem. Finding the proceeding of too oriental a fashion, we hurried away under the pretext that my husband was waiting for us outside. The old Satyr appeared very much displeased that we slipped out of his grasp, and when taking leave of us he gripped my hand and squeezed my fingers to make me cry out. Who could have thought of that old man being so inflammable! We ran down the stairs and rushed out, happy to have got off so cheaply from this mouse-trap. Being too late for the steamer, we took a ferry-boat. It was nearly night when we were back at the hotel, and marched in to dinner, which was half over.