I was purposely close to the end of the long line of people who were presented to the Khedive, for I wanted to study him. He was about five and a half feet tall, with straight black hair, black moustache, an olive complexion, brown eyes that were more than alert, and a rather Roman nose, giving a Jewish cast to his face, which always wore a very bored expression except when he was interested. His hand was small but firm--such a hand as would commit murder if the owner were sure it would not be found out. There was nothing of the brave man in his looks or actions. Polite and insinuating by nature, he was never born to lead. Rather, he suggested the favorite and tool of the Sultan, who would take some small chance of losing his head with a sufficiently large reward in the other side of the scale. He wore that night, and always, a single-breasted frock coat, like that of an Episcopal clergyman. He spoke English correctly but with an accent, and aversion as well; French he loved and spoke like a Parisian. I had been given advance information on this point, so when I was introduced, following a string of Englishmen and Americans, I addressed him in French. Instantly the weary look vanished and his face lighted up until he became almost handsome. “Ah,” he exclaimed, as he gripped my hand with more force than I had previously seen him display, “you are a Frenchman. I am delighted.” I made some polite reply and he went on, almost excitedly, “I love the French language, but I do not like the English. I speak it only because I have to. The Khedivah is more fortunate. She does not speak it at all, and she never will learn it.” We exchanged commonplaces for a moment and I passed on, wondering to what extent England could trust this man, who hated her tongue and made no secret of it.