We rose and left the table. Hassan joined us at the door, and we all sat down on a red plush settee. Waiters hurried past us with trays of coffee and stronger drinks; ladies in bright colours rustled about the passage; and in the corners men in evening dress lounged and smoked. Hassan stroked the settee gingerly. "It is very soft," he said, "but the sand was better." Then he looked round and paused. "What are all these people doing?" he asked irritably; "why can't they sit down and be quiet. There is no quiet here; the sand was better." Earlier in the day he had been pleased with the bright colours and the sense of movement, but now they seemed to vex him.
"Why do they keep on looking at us?" he went on; "is it because you are great Pashas?"
"No," I answered, "they have no idea that we are great Pashas."
"My countrymen in the desert looked at you because you were strangers from another country and they had not seen women like you before; but these are your own countrymen: why do they stare at you?"
"It is because we are not dressed like them," I said; "we have not got our beautiful clothes yet; when these come they will no longer look at us."
"But can they not see that you are travelling?" he said. "The people of my country, the Valis and the Kaimakams who prepared feasts for us, knew that you also had beautiful clothes in your own country."
"Yes, but our travelling clothes are not quite the same as those worn by our countrymen here," I explained, "so they do not understand us."
"But why," persisted Hassan, "should that cause them not to understand you?"
"We all do alike in our country," I explained; "if one person wears no pockets and big sleeves, then we all do the same."