'What will you eat, and what will you drink?' Logotheti asked.
She smiled and shook her head. [{266}]
'Anything that is good,' she said; 'but what I desire you have not in your ship. I long for fat quails with Italian rice, and for fig-paste, and I desire a sherbet made with rose leaves, such as the merchant's wife and I used to drink at the Kaffedji's by the Galata Bridge, and sometimes when we went up the Sweet Waters in a caïque on Friday. But you have not such things on your ship.'
Logotheti smiled.
'You forget that I am myself from Constantinople,' he said. 'It is now the season for fat quails in Italy, and they are sent alive to London and Paris, and there are many in my ship, waiting to be eaten. There is also fig-paste from the Stamboul confectioner near the end of the Galata Bridge, and preserved rose leaves with which to make a sherbet, and much ice; and you shall eat and drink the things you like best. Moreover, if there is anything else you long for, speak.'
'You are scoffing at Baraka!' answered the slim thing in blue serge, with the air of a displeased fairy princess.
'Not I. You shall see. We will have a table set here between us, with all the things you desire.'
'Truly? And coffee too? Real coffee? Not the thin mud-broth of the Franks?'
'Real coffee, in a real fildjan.'
Baraka clapped her small white hands for pleasure.