go by some unusual way. It passes my comprehension why they should
ever put any more dirt in the streets even for a Sultan. But sand is a
mark of respect in Russia and Turkey, and it really cleans the streets
a little. At least it absorbs the mud. Just as we were about to start
for a balcony beneath which he was almost sure to pass, our Turkish
friend whispered to us that if we wore capes we might take our
cameras. Imagine our delight, for it was so dangerous. But the capes!
Ours were not half long enough to conceal the camera properly. It was
growing late. So in a perfect frenzy I dragged out my long pale blue
_sortie du bal_, ripped the white velvet capes from it, pinned a short
sable cape to the top of it with safety-pins, and enveloped myself in
this gorgeousness at eleven o'clock in the morning. We made a curious
trio. Our Turk was in English tweeds with a fez. My companion wore a
smart tailor gown, and I was got up as if for a fancy-dress ball, but
in the streets of Constantinople no one gave me a second glance. I was
in mourning compared to some of the others.

On the balcony with us were two small boys with projecting ears, of
whom I stood in deadly terror, for if their boyish interest centred in
that camera of mine I was lost. Presently, however, with a tremendous
clatter, the Sultan's advance-guard came galloping down the street. I
got them, turned the film, and was ready for the next--the carriages
of the state officials. I aimed well, and got them, but I was growing
nervous. The boys writhed closer. I shoved them a little when their
mother was not looking.

"Don't try to take so many," said our Turk. "Here comes the Sultan.
Aim low, and don't fire until you see the whites of his eyes."

Again he looked up directly at us, and I snapped the shutter promptly.
It was done. I had succeeded in photographing the Sultan! To be sure,
it was an offense against the state, punishable by fine and
imprisonment, but nobody had caught me. The little boy next to me, who
had walked on my dress and ground his elbows into me, craned his neck
and stared at the Sultan with round eyes. He had been in my way ever
since we arrived, but in an exuberance of tenderness I patted his
head.

But when we had those negatives developed I discovered to my disgust
that instead of the Sultan I had taken an excellent photograph of that
wretched little boy's ear.

X

CAIRO

I need not have been afraid that the charms of Constantino