To-day she had on a red velvet gown, trimmed with gold lace, and made in the latest Parisian fashion for grown-up women. Her silk-mittened hands, bejewelled with rings and bracelets, held a crop with a golden head, from which floated yards and yards of pale blue ribbon. On her head perched a pink silk hat, adorned with large white ostrich plumes.
Quite in contrast to all this, a lock of hair hung down the middle of her forehead, to which were tied pieces of garlic and various other charms to ward off the evil eye.
The men of her group saluted the men of mine. The little girl eyed me, and I frankly stared at her. When the men’s temenas were ended, she piped up:
“Father, this is the little girl I was telling you of—the one that always dresses in sheeting.”
To think of a person dressed as she was criticizing my clothes. I rose on the points of my little white shoes, and extended an accusing finger at her:
“And you are dressed like a saltimbanque!” I said. A circus-rider was the only person with whom I felt I could properly compare her.
“Oh! it is not true,” the little girl wailed. “I am dressed like a great lady.”
The pasha, her father, smiled at my father. “Zarar yok Effedim! They will some day be women.”
My father saluted, and apologized for me, and we went on our way. A few minutes later, although I knew it had not been his intention, we mounted the stone steps which led to a rustic, open-air café.
He chose a table apart from the others, and gave an order to the waiter. He said no word either to his companion or to me, but I knew that he was worried. After the waiter had filled his order and gone, he spoke: