great ancestor. Then we are conducted to the private apartments of the Marabout. Through an interpreter we are bidden to remain for luncheon. We accept the invitation.
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"HOW ARE YOU?"
Words fail to tell of our surprise on entering the boudoir of our holy host. We had pictured to ourselves a sanctum sanctorum, containing possibly a prayer-mat and a copy of the Koran. We find instead a cozy den filled with the creations of the instalment-plan furniture dealer. Let me recite a catalogue of these incongruities. There was one tall clock, two cuckoo clocks, and five other clocks, each marking a different hour; there was a looking-glass, a settee, and a table,—all from the Bon Marché of Paris; there were—Oh, shade of Mohammed! photographic likenesses of living forms, selected from the collections in the windows of the Rue de Rivoli; there was a kerosene lamp like those which sometimes hang above the table d'hôte in five-franc-per-day pensions; and last and greatest wonder of them all, a lonely gas-fixture, complete with its wall-bracket, burner, and globe. Our host proudly takes it down to show it to us, for it is merely hung upon a hook. There are no
