The Persian Mirza was the first to break the silence. Looking at each of us in turn he said, in his mellowest tones: “Bah! Bah! Khúsh amedid! You are welcome. You have brought purity into the City of God.” “And so have you,” was ’Alí’s affable response. “I was the essence of impurity when I left my native town of Ardebil to perform this holy pilgrimage; but I trust that God may purify my conscience.” The guide changed his birthplace with his company. “Do you come from Ardebil, my friend?” said Abdul Saleh. “Many learned people have come from that blessed city. The poet calls it the House of Knowledge.” Seyyid ’Alí smiled a sarcastic smile. “Even the learned, my good brother of Hindustan,” quoth he, “are prisoners within the limits of the knowable, so fear not to inform the company wherein the fame of Ardebil consists.” My guide referred to the fact that the place he had chosen as his native town is the convict station of Persia. “God forbid!” replied Abdul Saleh, courteously, “for the tact that is yours shows the poet to have been right. The abode of learning must count you among its most honoured citizens.” These amenities put the whole table in a good temper, and Seyyid ’Alí was not long in summoning the waiter, Omar, who, having informed us that his master, Stád Mukhtar, had gone to Mina in order to open a branch establishment there, awaited our orders in an attitude so free and easy that Mahmud Bey, frowning ever so slightly, grew a degree more reserved than ever. The waiter wore a fez with a streaming tassel, a long white robe, and a bright silk sash, from which hung an apron that had once been white. The dishes we ordered were a ghormeh of camel’s flesh roasted in onions; a kúfteh, or mincemeat, served with rice and seasoned with spices; a lamb kebab on a skewer folded in a sheet of bread fresh from the oven; and a sweet called mehlabi, which looked like English jelly. Omar, placing his right hand to his ear, like a muezzin bugling out the cry of the Faith, shouted out at the top of his voice to the cook in the adjoining kitchen: “Ghormeh! Kúfteh! Kebab! Melabi! Eikki!” then, seeing that his cigarette was gone out, he asked me to provide him with a match, which was given to him by my guide, who did not share Mahmud Bey’s ill-disguised disapproval of the waiter’s demeanour. The Turk, raising his eyes to mine, said across the table: “Effendim, the waiters of Stambul have better manners--however.” A contemptuous shrug of the shoulders completed the sentence. The speaker addressed me in his own language, though he was a good Arabic scholar; but a political discussion which followed a question of mine as to whether Abdul Saleh approved or disapproved of the British rule in India was held in Arabic. “The poet says: ‘The essence of human enjoyment is the belly,’” said my guide, “so let us enjoy ourselves in a human fashion.”