She Had Lived So
Much The Life Of A Bedouin, That Her Dress And Her Habits Had
An Eastern Glow.
When staying with the Birds, she was
attended by an Arab girl, one of whose duties it was to
prepare her mistress' chibouk, which was regularly brought in
with the coffee.
On one occasion, when several other ladies
were dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton's
persuasion to satisfy their curiosity. The Arab girl soon
provided the means; and it was not long before there were
four or five faces as white as Mrs. Alfred Wigan's, under
similar circumstances, in the 'Nabob.'
Alfred Wigan's father was an unforgettable man. To describe
him in a word, he was Falstag REDIVIVUS. In bulk and
stature, in age, in wit and humour, and morality, he was
Falstaff. He knew it and gloried in it. He would complain
with zest of 'larding the lean earth' as he walked along. He
was as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack. He would
exhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments;
and would appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at his
last gasp, for 'just a tea-spoonful' of the grateful
stimulant. She served him with a liberal hand, till he cried
'Stop!' But if she then stayed, he would softly insinuate 'I
didn't mean it, my dear.' Yet he was no Costigan. His brain
was stronger than casks of whisky. And his powers of
digestion were in keeping.
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