“Madame my daughter,” he began, “from the moment when you did my house the honour of espousing my dear son, I have been your servant and admirer; that is known. Yûsuf himself has not more tender veneration for your many virtues and accomplishments, so rare among us.” He went on to recite the panegyric of her general conduct as a wife and mother, paid tribute to her beauty and her piety, and then said, “But there is one small point on which I have to scold you. In your great goodness, your untiring kindness, you forget to claim the service due to you. Your slaves, as I have heard, grow fat and lazy, and though devoted to you⁠—as what soul would not be?⁠—do not keep your house so scrupulously clean and nicely ordered as the dwelling-place of such a treasure ought to be. I beg you to make hard your heart from time to time, to think a little less for others and more often for yourself. Even your own son should be brought up to reverence you, as one to whom he owes incalculable debts of gratitude. He should kiss your hand whenever he approaches, and bow and ask your blessing when he takes his leave. It is our custom for small children and, I think, a good one. How is the little one this morning? Am I not to be allowed to see him for one moment?”