one day from the gardener who live with her father,
but maybe it all lie. He say Serim come and say--"
Again Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger, after the
manner of the paying teller. "Maybe ten thousand
piastres--maybe twenty. Her father would pay, of
course, only the Sultan might not like--then worse
trouble--nothing will be done anyhow until the wedding
is over. Then, perhaps, some time."

I did not go to Scutari the next day. I opened my
easel in the patio of the Pigeon Mosque and started
in to paint the plaza with Cleopatra's Needle in the
distance. This would occupy the morning. In the
afternoon I would finish my sketch of Suleiman.
Should Joe have a fresh attack of ague he could join
Yusuf at the cafe and forget it in the thimbelful
that cheers but does not inebriate.

With the setting up of my tripod and umbrella
and the opening of my color-box a crowd began
to gather--market people, fruit-sellers, peddlers,
scribes, and soldiers. Then a shrill voice rang out
from one of the minarets calling the people to prayer.
A group of priests now joined the throng about me
watched me for a moment, consulted together, and
then one of them, an old man in a silken robe of
corn-yellow bound about with a broad sash of baby
blue, a majestic old man, with a certain rhythmic
movement about him which was enchanting, laid
his hand on Joseph's shoulder and looking into