frequently astounded at what we call “the impertinence of these foreigners,” _i.e._ the natives. They ought to be proud to have us and our elephant-legs; glad to see such noble and beautiful types of civilization as the stout _parvenu_ with his pendant paunch, and his family of gawky youths and maidens of the large-toothed, long-limbed genus; glad to see the English “mamma,” who never grows old, but wears young hair in innocent curls, and has her wrinkles annually “massaged” out by a Paris _artiste_ in complexion. The Desert-Born, we say, should be happy and grateful to see such sights, and not demand so much “backsheesh.” In fact, the Desert-Born should not get so much in our way as he does; he is a very good servant, of course, but as a man and a brother--pooh! Egypt may be his country, and he may love it as much as we love England; but our feelings are more to be considered than his, and there is no connecting link of human sympathy between Elephant-Legs and sun-browned Nudity! So at least thought Sir Chetwynd Lyle, a stout gentleman of coarse build and coarser physiognomy, as he sat in a deep arm-chair in the great hall or lounge of the Gezireh Palace Hotel, smoking after dinner in the company of two or three acquaintances with whom he had fraternized during his stay in Cairo. Sir Chetwynd was fond of airing his opinions for the benefit of as many people who cared to listen to him, and Sir Chetwynd had some right to his opinions, inasmuch as he was the editor and proprietor of a large London newspaper. His knighthood was quite a recent distinction, and nobody knew exactly how he had managed to get it. He had originally been known in Fleet Street by the irreverent _sobriquet_ of “greasy Chetwynd,” owing to his largeness, oiliness and general air of blandly-meaningless benevolence. He had a wife and two daughters, and one of his objects in wintering at Cairo was to get his cherished children married. It was time, for the bloom was slightly off the fair girl-roses,--the dainty petals of the delicate buds were beginning to wither. And Sir Chetwynd had heard much of Cairo; he understood that there was a great deal of liberty allowed there between men and maids,--that they went out together on driving excursions to the Pyramids, that they rode on lilliputian donkeys over the sand at moonlight, that they floated about in boats at evening on the Nile, and that, in short, there were more opportunities of marriage among the “flesh-pots of Egypt” than in all the rush and crush of London. So here he was, portly and comfortable, and on the whole well satisfied with his expedition; there were a good many eligible bachelors about, and Muriel and Dolly were really doing their best. So was their mother, Lady Chetwynd Lyle; she allowed no “eligible” to escape her hawk-like observation, and on this particular evening she was in all her glory, for there was to be a costume ball at the Gezireh Palace Hotel,--a superb affair,