"Do you love her very much?"
"She is a good cook. She makes soup which is more filling than even my brother's here," pointing to Radford.
"Is she pretty?"
"Effendi, I could not afford to marry a good-looking girl. There was one in our village—such a pretty one, with eyes like a hare and plump as a turkey—but she could not cook, and her father wanted too much for her."
"Well, what did you give for your present wife?"
"Ten liras (Turkish pounds), but she did not weigh more than forty okas (about 100 lbs). She was very cheap. However, her eyes are not quite straight, they look in different directions. But that does not signify—she can cook."
"Yes," said the farmer, "a good cook, Effendi, that is what I said to myself when I wanted a wife. Looks don't last, but cooking is an art which the Prophet himself did not despise."
I had no reason to congratulate myself on being the occupant of the farmer's nuptial couch. It was very old and very beautiful, but it was full of fleas, and they gave me no rest.
"You ought to burn that quilt," I observed next morning to the farmer; "I have not closed my eyes during the entire night."
"What, burn my grandfather's marriage yorgan—my father's yorgan, and my own yorgan! Never, Effendi! There are fleas, it is true, but they will die, and the quilt will do for my son and his wife, if ever he has one."