Leylah Khânum was much exercised to know whether Barakah had had much love-experience in England. Hearing “No,” she raised her hands in marvel. One so beautiful! The mistress of so much charm! And unveiled among men! She asked the reason.
“I was poor,” said Barakah.
At that there was loud outcry; Leylah Khânum and Gulbeyzah called on God for pity.
“But you are beautiful! Men pay for beauty, need no bribe with it. And you mean to say they would have let you die a virgin—with that loveliness? O Lord of Heaven! What a wicked waste!”
Their dread of dying in virginity appealed to Barakah as something comical when she remembered the ideals preached in Christendom.
Leylah Khânum told her stories of true love, all far from proper judged by English taste; and shocked her by the cool assertion that poison was a woman’s natural weapon. In the afternoon they were invited to Murjânah Khânum’s rooms, where the business of the trousseau still proceeded. It went on for days. Each morning when she woke, the bride-elect found some fresh present from the Pasha in her room, which Gulbeyzah made her carry forth and show to every one. The whole haramlik frolicked round her in excitement.
Gulbeyzah’s status in the household puzzled her. The Circassian seemed the equal of the ladies, yet was called a slave.
She said to her one day:
“You are as white as I am. How can you bear to be a slave like Wardah or Fatûmah?”