Dearest Alick,

I have spun such a yarn to my mother that I shall make it serve for both.
It may amuse you to see what impression Cairo makes. I ride along on my
valiant donkey led by the stalwart Hassan and attended by Omar, and
constantly say, 'Oh, if our master were here, how pleased he would
be'--husband is not a correct word.

I went out to the tombs yesterday. Fancy that Omar witnessed the
destruction of some sixty-eight or so of the most exquisite buildings--the
tombs and mosques of the Arab Khaleefehs, which Said Pasha used to divert
himself with bombarding for practice for his artillery. Omar was then in
the boy corps of camel artillery, now disbanded. Thus the Pasha added
the piquancy of sacrilege to barbarity.

The street and the neighbours would divert you. Opposite lives a
Christian dyer who must be a seventh brother of the admirable barber. The
same impertinence, loquacity, and love of meddling in everybody's
business. I long to see him thrashed, though he is a constant comedy. My
delightful servant, Omar Abou-el-Hallaweh (the father of sweets)--his
family are pastrycooks--is the type of all the amiable _jeune premiers_
of the stories. I am privately of opinion that he is Bedr-ed-Deen
Hassan, the more that he can make cream tarts and there is no pepper in
them. Cream tarts are not very good, but lamb stuffed with pistachio
nuts fulfils all one's dreams of excellence. The Arabs next door and the
Levantines opposite are quiet enough, but how _do_ they eat all the
cucumbers they buy of the man who cries them every morning as 'fruit
gathered by sweet girls in the garden with the early dew.'