I went to two hareems the other day with a little boy of Mustapha Aga's,
and was much pleased. A very pleasant Turkish lady put out all her
splendid bedding and dresses for me, and was most amiable. At another a
superb Arab with most _grande dame_ manners, dressed in white cotton and
with unpainted face, received me statelily. Her house would drive you
wild, such antique enamelled tiles covering the panels of the walls, all
divided by carved woods, and such carved screens and galleries, all very
old and rather dilapidated, but superb, and the lady worthy of the house.
A bold-eyed slave girl with a baby put herself forward for admiration,
and was ordered to bring coffee with such cool though polite
imperiousness. One of our great ladies can't half crush a rival in
comparison, she does it too coarsely. The quiet scorn of the pale-faced,
black-haired Arab was beyond any English powers. Then it was fun to open
the lattice and make me look out on the square, and to wonder what the
neighbours would say at the sight of my face and European hat. She asked
about my children and blessed them repeatedly, and took my hand very
kindly in doing so, for fear I should think her envious and fear her
eye--she had none.
_Tuesday_.--The post goes out to-morrow, and I have such a cold I must
stay in bed and cannot write much. I go on Thursday and shall go to
Briggs' house. Pray write to me at Cairo. Sally and I are both unwell
and anxious to get up the river. I can't write more.