Calling one day on Ibrahim Pasha, who had succeeded the late Munir Pasha as Grand Master of Ceremonies and Introducer of Ambassadors, I saw a tall, pompous personage in the uniform of a Turkish General engaged in conversation with his Excellency. To judge by appearances he was a very Bobadil, a swashbuckler sort of man, one of the grasping, cunning windbag variety which Abdul Hamid’s promiscuous generosity tempted from the barrack-room of his native country to a palace on the Bosphorus, to the dismay and disgust of many a loyal Turkish heart. Six feet of coloured cloth surmounted by an almost round bullet head, bobbing up and down mechanically as if set in motion by wires, the features of the man were commonplace, if not downright plebeian. A hectoring, flamboyant mien stamped the whole personage, breathing the soldier’s contempt for the civilian, which is one of the most ominous phenomena of contemporary Europe. And yet he was by no means one calculated to inspire fear: the sort of man that an American cowboy would throw out of a bar-room without taking his pipe out of his mouth. Vorne mit Trompetenschall Ritt der General Feldmarschall Herr Quintilius Varus.[15] Footnote 15: “Full in front with trumpet blast Rode Field-Marshal General Herr Quintilius Varus.” (German Student Song) I took a seat, awaiting my turn to approach his Excellency, and, as is customary, bowed right and left in doing so. The tall man drew himself up and seemed to resent the courtesy of a mere civilian. But what particularly attracted my attention was that he pestered Ibrahim Pasha with details, given in execrable French, about the ailments of his wife, whom he had recently conveyed to a European sanatorium. It was a sight to note the courtly patience with which Ibrahim Pasha listened to the narrative of Miles Gloriosus, for it is the very worst form of breeding in the eyes of a Turk to refer to one’s womenkind. This edifying tête-à-tête went on for some time. At last pomposity was about to take his leave. I held up a newspaper in front of me so as to spare him the trouble of making up his mind whether he was to notice me on quitting the apartment or not. Ibrahim Pasha accompanied his visitor to the door of the ante-room leading out of the building. It was a most amusing sight as I peered over the newspaper through the open door. I saw the two engaged in conversation, the loquacious officer indulging in lively gesticulations. On Ibrahim Pasha returning to the room I said to him: “If I might venture to put it to your Excellency, I would be prepared to wager that the pasha who has just left the room gave way to an impulse of effeminate curiosity and asked you who I am.”