“Oh, yes. Look at the Hakim.”
“Sha’n’t! I’ve been looking till I feel ashamed of him.”
“Ashamed?” said the Sheikh. “Why?”
“Dressed up like that! Him a first-class London surgeon and M.D., with Palladium Club and Wimpole Street on his card. I tell you I’m ashamed of him, and I’m ashamed of myself, and I ain’t sure now that it isn’t all a dream.”
“I do not understand,” said the Sheikh coldly.
“You can’t, Mr Abrahams. You’re a very nice, civil old gentleman, and I like you, and I’m much obliged for lots of good turns you’ve done me; but you see you’ve never been to London, and don’t know what’s what.”
“No,” said the Sheikh; “I have never been to London yet, but I have often thought of going with some family, for I have been asked twice. But if I do come I shall try to see you, Mr Samuel.”
“Glad to see you, old chap, any time,” said Sam warmly; “and if you do come I’ll show you what our country’s like.”
“Thank you, Mr Samuel,” said the Sheikh, smiling pleasantly; “and if I do come I shall dress as you English do; but I will not be ashamed of it.”
“Here, you’re going on the wrong road, old gentleman,” said Sam. “I’m not ashamed of the nightgown and nightcap. They’re cool and comfortable. It’s seeing the guv’nor dressed up, and him and me and Mr Frank and Mr Landon in this procession. Do you know how I feel just now?”