“What silly little bits!” cried Benrajah, laughingly. Then, after well licking his brown, henna-stained fingers, he tore off a huge piece and offered it to me! A cold perspiration broke out on my forehead, and I almost longed for death. “Eat! eat!” he cried, gaily; and, choking down my despair, I ate. How could I dare to do otherwise after Mme. G----’s warning? Are not the laws of hospitality sacred and to be observed throughout the world? But it was terrible tribute to pay to foreign customs, and I felt a lesser desire for originality. “It is good?” inquired the Caid. “Delicious! delicious!” I answered, with a ghastly green smile. “Ah! Here is a _comme il faut Roumia_!” he cried, enchanted--and promptly tore me off a beautiful brown piece of meat, weighing, I should think, about three pounds! My cup of anguish was full, and I prayed--yes, actually prayed--to be delivered from that three pounds of meat. And I was. Crash! The table-cloth was half dragged off, and, amid a rain of knives and forks, plates and glasses, my little girl rolled on to the ground. I did not lose my presence of mind, but, seizing my pounds of meat, all unseen in the commotion I threw them to the lean dogs, who made very short work of them. Then my motherly feelings came to the fore, and I went to the rescue of my child. It was soon apparent what had happened--the poor mite had been given too much wine by the thoughtless Mme. G----, and was very seedy for some days afterwards. It would be reasonable to suppose that the “meshui” was the last of the courses, but it disappeared only to give place to the Arab national dish, the “couscous.” At sight of the snowy pile of rolled semolina, surmounted by more mutton, a feeling of revolt took possession of me. I felt I could dare Lucifer himself; and so I refused the couscous, although in a cowardly way, by pretending that fresh air was necessary for my poor little Renée. Perhaps it was, but if it had not been I should have said the same. I do not think I ever quite forgave Mme. G---- her two practical jokes, for practical jokes they were. When I described my sufferings at having to eat all the Caid gave me, she laughed herself ill and said, “What a ‘blue’ you are!” Which is the French military way of calling you a greenhorn. [Illustration: “I LOOKED ROUND JUST IN TIME TO SEE AN ARAB LOWERING HIS GUN.”]