He was witty, though occasionally brutal, as when he spoke
of a dragoman he had had in Egypt, whose defence of his _harem_ had cost
him his place. This man, a cultivated Persian, had proposed hospitality to
his patron in Alexandria, where he lived. Accepted, he had made a great
supper for Ingram, invited his friends and acquaintances, procured
musicians and dancing-girls. It was magnificent, Ingram allowed. The
trouble came afterwards, when the native guests had gone their ways and
patron and host were together. Ingram proposed a visit to the ladies--"the
civil thing, it appeared to me. But no, if you please! Mirza turned very
glum, pronounced it not the custom: I must excuse him, he says. But I say,
Will they excuse _me_, my good man? He makes a sour face, so of course I
know that they won't, and that he knows they won't. Then he marches away
upon some errand or another, and when he comes back finds me tapping at a
door. You never saw such a change in a chap; upon my soul, it was worth
it. He went white, he went grey, he went livid. His eyes were like stars.
No, I'm wrong. They were not. They were like the flaming swords which kept
Adam and Eve out of the garden. Magnificent police arrangements in Eden,
they had.
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