There was music for some, whist for others; tea, ices, cakes, and a crowd for all. At ten o'clock-the rooms already nearly filled, and Mrs. Haughton, as she stood at the door, anticipating with joy that happy hour when the staircase would become inaccessible the head attendant, sent with the ices from the neighbouring confectioner, announced in a loud voice: "Mr. Haughton Mr. Darrell."

Iron bars guard the rear windows of the houses at Eski Baba, and ere I am fairly stretched out on my mat several swarthy faces appear at the bars, and several voices simultaneously join in the dread chorus of, " Bin, bin, bin, monsieur! bin, bin." compelling me to close, in the middle of a hot day-the rain having ceased about ten o'clock-the one small avenue of ventilation in the stuffy little room.