Ziska | Page 4

the rooms; and we can discuss each bill presented to us with an
industrious persistence which nearly drives landlords frantic and
ourselves as well. In these kind of important matters we are indeed
"superior" to Byron and other ranting dreamers of his type, but we
produce no Childe Harolds, and we have come to the strange pass of
pretending that Don Juan is improper, while we pore over Zola with
avidity! To such a pitch has our culture brought us! And, like the
Pharisee in the Testament, we thank God we are not as others are. We
are glad we are not as the Arab, as the African, as the Hindoo; we are
proud of our elephant-legs and our dividing coat-line; these things
show we are civilized, and that God approves of us more than any other
type of creature ever created. We take possession of nations, not by
thunder of war, but by clatter of dinner-plates. We do not raise armies,
we build hotels; and we settle ourselves in Egypt as we do at Homburg,
to dress and dine and sleep and sniff contempt on all things but
ourselves, to such an extent that we have actually got into the habit of
calling the natives of the places we usurp "foreigners." WE are the
foreigners; but somehow we never can see it. Wherever we condescend
to build hotels, that spot we consider ours. We are surprised at the
impertinence of Frankfort people who presume to visit Homburg while
we are having our "season" there; we wonder how they dare do it! And,
of a truth, they seem amazed at their own boldness, and creep shyly
through the Kur-Garten as though fearing to be turned out by the
custodians. The same thing occurs in Egypt; we are frequently
astounded at what we call "the impertinence of these foreigners," i.e.
the natives. They ought to be proud to have us and our elephant-legs;
glad to see such noble and beautiful types of civilization as the stout

parvenu with his pendant paunch, and his family of gawky youths and
maidens of the large-toothed, long-limbed genus; glad to see the
English "mamma," who never grows old, but wears young hair in
innocent curls, and has her wrinkles annually "massaged" out by a Paris
artiste in complexion. The Desert-Born, we say, should be happy and
grateful to see such sights, and not demand so much "backsheesh." In
fact, the Desert-Born should not get so much in our way as he does; he
is a very good servant, of course, but as a man and a brother-- pooh!
Egypt may be his country, and he may love it as much as we love
England; but our feelings are more to be considered than his, and there
is no connecting link of human sympathy between Elephant-Legs and
sun-browned Nudity!
So at least thought Sir Chetwynd Lyle, a stout gentleman of coarse
build and coarser physiognomy, as he sat in a deep arm-chair in the
great hall or lounge of the Gezireh Palace Hotel, smoking after dinner
in the company of two or three acquaintances with whom he had
fraternized during his stay in Cairo. Sir Chetwynd was fond of airing
his opinions for the benefit of as many people who cared to listen to
him, and Sir Chetwynd had some right to his opinions, inasmuch as he
was the editor and proprietor of a large London newspaper. His
knighthood was quite a recent distinction, and nobody knew exactly
how he had managed to get it. He had originally been known in Fleet
Street by the irreverent sobriquet of "greasy Chetwynd," owing to his
largeness, oiliness and general air of blandly-meaningless benevolence.
He had a wife and two daughters, and one of his objects in wintering at
Cairo was to get his cherished children married. It was time, for the
bloom was slightly off the fair girl-roses,--the dainty petals of the
delicate buds were beginning to wither. And Sir Chetwynd had heard
much of Cairo; he understood that there was a great deal of liberty
allowed there between men and maids,--that they went out together on
driving excursions to the Pyramids, that they rode on lilliputian
donkeys over the sand at moonlight, that they floated about in boats at
evening on the Nile, and that, in short, there were more opportunities of
marriage among the "flesh-pots of Egypt" than in all the rush and crush
of London. So here he was, portly and comfortable, and on the whole
well satisfied with his expedition; there were a good many eligible

bachelors about, and Muriel and Dolly were really doing their best. So
was their mother, Lady Chetwynd Lyle; she allowed no "eligible" to
escape her hawk-like observation, and on this particular evening she
was in all her glory, for there