We were presented to the Khedive and his son, Tewfik Pasha; both wore European dress with a large star on the breast and the inevitable fez. The Khedive made a deep bow and then turned to address my mother, to whom he made quite a speech, leaving me to talk with Tewfik. The Khedive was about fifty, rather stout, with grizzled hair and beard, a pleasant smile, and a magnetic presence. Tewfik was not half so attractive as his father; he had the smoldering eye and scornful gaze of the fanatical Mohammedan. He spoke of his new steam yacht lately arrived in Cairo and asked if we were going up the Nile. “And where are the ladies we saw when we were last at the palace?” I asked indiscreetly enough. Tewfik glanced indifferently at a sort of trellised balcony at the end of the room, as he answered: “It is not the custom of our country for our ladies to appear at a ball.” I seemed to feel the eyes of those women of the harem looking down upon me from behind those screens. No man of his time was more talked about than Ismaïl Pasha. Some people said of him, “He has ruined Egypt.” Others maintained, “He has created a new Egypt.” Whatever place history may award him, these things remain to his credit. He completed the Suez Canal. He built the road from Cairo to the Pyramids. He protected the exploration of Sir Samuel Baker. He founded girls’ schools all over Egypt; and he commissioned Giuseppe Verdi to write “Aïda” for the opening of the Cairo Opera House. When I hear Caruso’s voice in “Celeste Aïda”, I remember Ismaïl Pasha, for whom Verdi’s masterpiece was written! My mother’s journal notes that “Maud danced all night.” We did not get home much before four in the morning. One partner, the son of a prominent German banker, is recalled by a photograph of a handsome oriental looking man, that has somehow survived. It bears the inscription: “Never forgetting the delicious hours I have spent in your company charming. Hans Bleichroder. Cairo, December 12, 1878.” Among the Orientals, I should say, my cousin Julia was the admired one of our little party. Her tall, dignified figure and tendency to _embonpoint_ filled them with delight. Another of my partners, my old friend, Augustus Gurnee, writes me _à propos_ of this ball of forty years ago: “Indeed I was with you, and danced with you at the last ball Ismaïl gave before he was deposed; and while we were circling, an awkward Levantine couple caromed into us, so that my heel came down on the foot of Tewfik, who was standing in a doorway. We stopped to crave pardon, and he was smiling and courteous, so I never knew whether he felt any pain. _Inshallah!_”