effendi, the young lion has come. He's upstairs with his mother—and she is good to look at."
I climbed the much beribboned stairs; for all the old brocades and rare Anatolian shawls were draped over the banisters; and went to my Lady's room. I found her seated on a couch, all clad in white satin, holding Nouri Pasha's son fast in her arms.
"Come! come! yavroum, come to see him. Isn't he wonderful, and isn't Allah good to me?"
"He is a nice baby; but because you have him you will not go to Paris with me, and you will never, never see the world."
She gazed up at me as if we had never talked of Paris. "Oh, yes, Paris," she murmured dreamily. "That was for my selfish pleasure. But now," she continued with a thrill in her voice, "now I am doing something for the world."
Her face shone with the light which must be lighted from the divine spark within us, when the self is effaced. She looked more than ever like the Lady of the Fountain—but a fountain unlocked, and giving to the world from its abundant waters.
