One night stands out--a gorgeous night--a carnival in honour and aid of brave little Serbia. Kipling says that "East is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet"; but he surely has not seen a Venetian carnival in Cairo, with its intermingling of the progressive Occident and the picturesque Orient. One will always remember that. When the tourists from the West overrun the land of the Pharaohs, as they do once a year, a Venetian fête is held at Shepheard's--the social event of the season. Sightseers from England, idle rich from the Continent, plutocrats from America, tourists from the four quarters of the world, all meet and make merry here. This year of grace witnessed a somewhat different spectacle, it is true. It was a polyglot gathering of all nations, to be sure, but the tourist element was wanting. In the place of the tourists, however, was the "Army of Occupation." Hundreds of officers, British, French, Egyptian, Australian and New Zealand, in smart uniforms, gave striking colour to the scene, which was made additionally picturesque by the vari-coloured silks and satins, scarfs and veils of the ladies. The garden was a blaze of splendour. There were the flags of the nations, there were flowers and palms and purling fountains, mirth and music, lights and laughter, and over all--confetti. All night the air was thick with confetti, like snow falling off a rainbow. Revellers flew hither and thither, flinging it everywhere. Merry maidens threw handfuls of confetti and eyesful of bold glances at the sun-tanned colonials. There was no respite until the ground was ankle-deep with confetti. Tired at last of the revelry, we adjourned to the Moorish Hall, and while the orchestra played the ravishing strains of the barcarolle we danced the red stars to their death. Loud explosions in the courtyard sent us rushing forth once more. And then we saw the most wonderful pyrotechnic display in all the world. Without warning, odd corners of the garden burst into a blaze of light. Rockets, Roman candles, Catherine wheels, shooting stars and all the fireworks we loved as youngsters were there in full working order, but ever so many more and ever so much grander than at those "Queen's Birthday" exhibitions which ourselves when young did eagerly frequent. Shall we ever forget that final burst of coloured lights outlining the words "Hurrah for Serbia!" Not _I_. No more than I shall ever forget the deeds of glory of the Serbians.