foreigners; but somehow we never can see it. Wherever we
condescend to build hotels, that spot we consider ours. We are
surprised at the impertinence of Frankfort people who presume to
visit Homburg while we are having our "season" there; we wonder
how they dare do it! And, of a truth, they seem amazed at their
own boldness, and creep shyly through the Kur-Garten as though
fearing to be turned out by the custodians. The same thing occurs
in Egypt; we are frequently astounded at what we call "the
impertinence of these foreigners," i.e. the natives. They ought to
be proud to have us and our elephant-legs; glad to see such noble
and beautiful types of civilization as the stout parvenu with his
pendant paunch, and his family of gawky youths and maidens of the
large-toothed, long-limbed genus; glad to see the English "mamma,"
who never grows old, but wears young hair in innocent curls, and
has her wrinkles annually "massaged" out by a Paris artiste in
complexion. The Desert-Born, we say, should be happy and grateful
to see such sights, and not demand so much "backsheesh." In fact,
the Desert-Born should not get so much in our way as he does; he
is a very good servant, of course, but as a man and a brother--
pooh! Egypt may be his country, and he may love it as much as we
love England; but our feelings are more to be considered than his,
and there is no connecting link of human sympathy between
Elephant-Legs and sun-browned Nudity!

So at least thought Sir Chetwynd Lyle, a stout gentleman of coarse
build and coarser physiognomy, as he sat in a deep arm-chair in
the great hall or lounge of the Gezireh Palace Hotel, smoking
after dinner in the company of two or three acquaintances with
whom he had fraternized during his stay in Cairo. Sir Chetwynd was
fond of airing his opinions for the benefit of as many people who