“She shall learn type-writing,” said I, suddenly inspired, “and make a fair copy of my Renaissance Morals.”

“She would make a very fair copy indeed of Renaissance Morals,” returned the lady, dryly.

“Is she so very dreadful?” I asked in alarm.  “The peignoir, I know—­”

“Perhaps that has something to do with it.”

“Then, for heaven’s sake,” said I, “dress her in drabs and greys and subfusc browns.  Cut off her hair and give her a row of buttons down the back.”

My friend’s eyes sparkled.

“I am going,” said she, “to have the day of my life tomorrow.”

Carlotta had already gone to sleep, so Antoinette informed me, when the results of Mrs. McMurray’s shopping came home.  I am glad she has early habits.  It appears she has spent a happy and fully occupied afternoon over a pile of French illustrated comic papers in the possession of my excellent housekeeper.

I wonder whether it is quite judicious to make French comic papers her initiation into the ideas of Western civilisation.  Into this I must inquire.  I must also talk seriously to her with a view to her ultimate destiny.  But as my view would be distorted by the red dressing-gown, I shall wait until she is decently clad.  I think I shall have to set apart certain hours of the day for instructive conversation with Carlotta.  I shall have to develop her mind, of which she distinctly has the rudiments.  For the rest of the day she must provide entertainment out of her own resources.  This her oriental habits of seclusion will render an easy task, for I will wager that Hamdi Effendi did not concern himself greatly as to the way in which the ladies of his harem filled up their time.  And now I come to think of it, he certainly did not allow Carlotta to sprawl about his own private and particular drawing-room.  I will not westernise her too rapidly.  The Turkish educational system has its merits.

This, in its way is comforting.  If only I could accept her as a human creature.  But when I think of her callous reception of the tidings of the unhappy boy’s death, my spirit fails me.  Such a being would run a carving-knife into you, as you slept, without any compunction, and when you squeaked, she would laugh.  Look at her base ingratitude to the good Hamdi Effendi, who took her in before she was born and has treated her as a daughter all her life.  No:  her spiritual attitude all through has been that of the ladies who used to visit St. Anthony—­in the leisure moments when they were not actively engaged in temptation.  I don’t believe her father was an English vice-consul.  He was Satan.

I wonder what she told Mrs. McMurray.