A pair of white-linen drawers, no socks, carpet slippers, and a thin jersey, were my faithful follower's idea of a costume suitable to the Indian climate--surmounted by the somewhat inappropriate head-dress of a huge astrakhan cap, which for no earthly consideration could he be persuaded to exchange for a turban.

"So that is a Russian!" said the prince, curiously surveying him from head to foot.

"I thought they were all big men!" But patience has limits, and, with a muttered "Dourak," [E] poor Gerome turned and left the princely presence in anything but a respectful manner.
Coffee and nargileh discussed, my host moved an adjournment to the roof of the palace, where, he said, I should obtain a better view of his father's city.

This ceremony concluded, the trumpets sounded, a gentle hint that the audience was at an end, and I took leave, and returned to camp outside the walls of the town.
The Wazir, or Prime Minister, of the Djam paid me a visit in the evening _sans ceremonie_--a jolly-looking, fresh-complexioned old fellow, dressed in a suit of karki, cut European fashion, and with nothing Oriental about him save a huge white linen turban.

The Wazir spoke English fairly well, and, waxing confidential over a cigar and whisky-and-water (like my Sonmiani friend, the Wazir was no strict Mussulman), entertained me with an account of the doings of the Court in Beila and the _aventures galantes_ of Kumal, who, from all accounts, was a veritable Don Juan.