on, the big, modern hotel, rather like an overgrown Swiss chalet built
by Arabs--a vast, confused building the colour of sand or brown heather
honey, with carved mushrbiyeh work lending an Eastern charm to windows,
balconies, and loggias, and enough green, flowery garden to give a
sensational effect of contrast with the tidal wave of desert poised
ready, it would seem, to overwhelm palms and roses. Clustered near, the
tiny mushroom village which huddles under the shelter of Cheops'
Pyramid. Beyond, the immense upward sweep of golden dunes, culminating
in the Great Pyramid itself.

I stayed in the picture only long enough to settle my big children into
their quarters, and to see most of them making for the dining-room,
agreeably Oriental with its white and red walls, its dome and windows
of mushrbiyeh work. Then I darted back to Cairo, in a taxi driven by a
Nubian youth, so black that he was almost blue, like a whortleberry. He
wore a scarlet tarboosh, a livery of violet, and the holes for silver
rings in the tops of his ears were so large that the light shining
through gave the effect of inserted diamonds. Unconsciously he made a
nice contrast with his modern motor.

He drove with such reckless speed that camels "rubber-necked" to look
at us--and whirled me past the fat black gate-keeper into the Ghezireh
Palace garden of scarlet paths, moonlike lamps, Khedivial statues, and
spreading banyans where each tree continued itself in its own "next
number," like an endless serial romance.

I nearly asked for Mrs. O'Brien, but turned her into Jones at the
danger point. The face of the concierge, as he said that she was at
home, conveyed nothing, yet I could not resist adding, "Are the ladies
well?"