again. Then I mentioned that the other day I had had a long visit from him alone; we had talked for an hour, and become excellent friends. Mr. Caliph, as I said this, was leaning forward with his elbow on his knee and his hand uplifted, grasping his thick beard. The other hand, with the elbow out, rested on the other knee; his head was turned toward me, askance. He looked at me a moment with his deep bright eye—the eye of a much older man than he; he might have been posing for a watercolor. If I had painted him, it would have been in a high-peaked cap, and an amber-colored robe, with a wide girdle of pink silk wound many times round his waist, stuck full of knives with jewelled handles. Our eyes met, and we sat there exchanging a glance. I don't know whether he 's vain, but I think he must see I appreciate him; I am sure he understands everything.
"I like you when you say that," he remarked at the end of a minute.
"I 'm glad to hear you like me!" This sounds horrid and pert as I relate it.
"I don't like every one," said Mr. Caliph.
"Neither do Eunice and I; do we, Eunice?"
"I am afraid we only try to," she answered, smiling her most beautiful smile.
"Try to? Heaven forbid! I protest against that," I cried. I said to Mr. Caliph that Eunice was too good.
"She comes honestly by that. Your mother was an angel, my child," he said to her.
