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"Do the different people's cotton not get mixed?" and "What I like is, it is so primitive." To this last indeed it was somewhat severely replied that the process I had viewed was anything but primitive—nay, that it was the last word on cotton-pressing, or it would not have been adopted at Alexandria. This was conclusive, and one can only hope that it will be the last word for ever, and that for century after century brown legs and rhythmic songs will greet the advancing cataracts of snow. That peevish British officer would have forgotten his peevishness had he come here. He would have regretted his criticism of the Bourse. It was "A bomb in the middle of them is the only possible comment," and when he made it I realized that there was someone in the world even more outside cotton than I was myself.