“Madame says you are more beautiful than she was told. Your beauty is more excellent than the rose. Your eyes remind her of the Bosphorus. You make her think of her own country. The desire which you inspire is like homesickness.”

Barakah could only blush and hang her head⁠—a posture which drew down fresh compliments upon her modesty.

Slaves brought in trays of fruit and set them down, retiring silently. Then an old negress came in with a brazier and made coffee, with which was served a kind of fritter smeared with honey. Then a young girl appeared with ewer and basin and fine towels, going first to Barakah, who rinsed her hands. Murjânah and Gulbeyzah, she saw afterwards, used soap and washed their teeth as well⁠—a cause of spluttering.

Murjânah Khânum rolled a cigarette. She lounged at ease with eyes intent on Barakah, and while she smoked, gave vent to her reflections, which Gulbeyzah rendered into French as best she could.