ies
as big as pigeons' eggs, prodigious ropes of pearls, were studded and
wound about every part of her rich robes. Every finger glittered,
and bracelets flashed beneath her hanging sleeves. She sat in silent
splendour on a divan, now and then proudly moving a fan of feathers,
lost in criticism of the jewels of her friends, and in contemplation of
her own.

A young man, tall and well-looking, dressed as an Oriental, but with an
affected, jerking air, more French than Syrian, moved jauntily about
the room, speaking to several persons for a short time, shrugging
his shoulders and uttering commonplaces as if they were poignant
originalities. This was Hillel Besso, the eldest son of the Besso of
Aleppo, and the intended husband of Eva. Hillel, too, had seen the
world, passed a season at Pera, where he had worn the Frank dress, and,
introduced into the circles by the lady of the Austrian Internuncio,
had found success and enjoyed himself. He had not, however, returned
to Syria with any of the disgust shared by the Mesdemoiselles Laurella.
Hillel was neither ashamed of his race nor his religion: on the
contrary, he was perfectly satisfied with this life, with the family
of Besso in general, and with himself particularly. Hillel was a little
philosophical, had read Voltaire, and, free from prejudices, conceived
himself capable of forming correct opinions. He listened smiling and in
silence to Eva asserting the splendour and superiority of their race,
and sighing for the restoration of their national glory, and then
would say, in a whisper to a friend, and with a glance of epigrammatic
airiness, 'For my part, I am not so sure that we were ever better off
than we are.'

He stopped and conversed with Therese Laurella, who at first was
unbending, but when she found that he was a Besso, and had listened to
one or two anecdotes which indicated personal acquaintance not only
with ambassadors but with ambassadors' ladies, she began to relax. In
general, however, the rest of the ladies did not speak, or made only
observations to each other in a hushed voice. Conversation is not the
accomplishment of these climes and circles. They seemed content to
show their jewels to their neighbours. There was a very fat lady, of
prodigious size, the wife of Signor Yacoub Picholoroni, who was also a
consul, but not a consul-general _in honorem_. She looked like a huge
Chinese idol; a perpetual smile played upon her immense good-natured
cheeks, and