topped box full of fragrant
mint, another quaint box containing fine green tea, an enormous cut-glass
sugar-basin heaped with small rocks of white sugar, two silver embossed
and steaming teapots, some scent-sprinklers and incense-burners of
silver. At her elbow, on the floor, was the largest silver urn I ever
saw, capable of supplying half a dozen school feasts; down the room, in a
line, upon the carpets, stood round baskets, three feet in diameter,
filled with palest cream-coloured bracelet-shaped loaves of bread, made
of too fine and white a flour and too perfectly baked for any but the
upper ten to indulge in. The centre basket contained perhaps fifty
cakes--nothing on a small scale here--made of thin flaked pastry, iced
over with sugar, filled with a confectionery of almonds, and quinces, and
raisins, and orange-flower water, and an essence, one drop of which cost
five shillings. These take a day to make, and are only met with in an
elaborate _menage_. Other tarts, lavishly coated with a snow of white
sugar, contained jams and nuts and all the sweet things dear to the
Moorish heart.

The movements of Fatima's small hands among the cups, covered with rings,
each polished nail just touched with a half-moon of dark red henna, were
born of _dolce far niente_, backed by a long line famous for their
beauty: her restless black eyes alternately gleamed with cruelty and
cunning; flashed with passion; grew sad as it is given to few eyes to
grow.

Many embroidered buttons, as edgings in front, betokened garment within
garment, which she wore, all of them at last confined by a broad, richly
worked belt; her kaftan was of lemon-yellow, shining with silver
borderings; the muslin "overall" was the thinnest atmosphere of white;
there were many necklaces, chiefly pearl, round her neck, and, most
characteristic of all, a tiny yellow silk handkerchief was knotted once
round her throat; on her black head, colour ran riot in silks of all
shades, tied and twisted and arranged as only a Moorish hand knows; her
feet were wrapped in a soft pale yellow shawl, embroidered. She did not
get up when we came in.

Multiply Fatima twelve times, in colours more opulent and more bizarre
than her own, instead of her lithe figure, picture stone upon stone of
sleek flesh, and some idea of the epicureanism of the scene is arrived
at. Sitting on each side of us were two of the fattest women I have ever
seen.

[Illustration: A GROUP IN THE FEDDAN, TET