“It is not the custom of my country, and is forbidden by our religion.”
She laughed.
I began to get afraid of this old lady.
Another day the younger nurse volunteered a remark. She asked me—Were there in England any women as beautiful as she, with skin as white and eyes as dark.
The old ladies remarked that her question was exceedingly ill-bred, and one likely to cause offence to me.
The Armenian told her that she, and such as she, were not fit to carry the shoes of an English lady. I said he was quite right: so she was snubbed all round. However, she did not seem to mind, for she sat and smiled to herself.
Meanwhile, I was continuing my Persian lessons, whenever Munshi Amin Ullah, the Agent’s secretary, could spare an hour to visit me. One day I persuaded him to read “Bret Harte” aloud to me. It was delicious to see this highly-educated Mahomedan—he was an excellent fellow—sitting cross-legged on the ground, solemnly declaiming the “Heathen Chinee.”
As I laughed, I said, “By Jove! it is funny!”
He said he thought it was very difficult and very incorrect English. I told him that was just where the joke came in. He smiled politely, and asked why I said “By Joe!” He had often heard Englishmen use the expression, and knew that Joe was an abbreviation of Joseph, though why we should say “By Joe,” or who Joe was, he had not heard. I explained the origin of the expression, and described Jove as the god of the Romans.