"I think Ferende has some," suggested Souleima. "She drinks like a fish."
"Umph! And I don't suppose you help her?"
"Effendi, I swear—" commenced Souleima.
"I don't even know the taste of it," protested Ayesha.
"Silence, silence! and bring me some. And look here," as the decanter was set before him, "if I ever hear a lisp about my wine drinking I'll wring the necks of both of you—cackling old hens that you are. And now send Ferende to wait on me, and get out of my sight, the two of you. You take my appetite away. She at least is not a greasy old slattern."
After the Effendi had eaten he betook himself to his chamber in search of much needed rest. Ferende followed him, but he pushed her from him, saying in a querulous and disgusted tone:
"Get away from me, can't you? Darken the room and go. Shut the door, and if any of you women make a noise—eh, there, listen!"
"Yes, Effendi." Ferende had nearly closed the door, but she opened it a little way and thrust her face back into the room.
"Don't take Panayota up those cold fish. Fry her some hot ones, and give her some wine."
The ex-favorite found the two elder wives whispering together in the garden.