In Front of Shepheard's.

Cairo is a wonderful place and the terrace at Shepheard's is not the least of its wonders.

In pre-war days more diplomatic questions were dealt with on this site than anywhere else in the world, including the renowned No. 10. Being so near the Balkan States—territories which have always been wrapped in mystery, intrigue and tragedy— is the accounting probability. Watching, from this vantage point, the crowds pass, you see a multi-coloured, ever-changing picture the like of which is impossible to imagination. If ever there was a gateway between East and West, it is here. For ten minutes we have watched the scene, and, in that time, representatives of nearly every nation in the world have passed.

British Officers—of staff—with their gold braid and tabs, red, dark blue, light blue and green,—of regiments, of every conceivable part of the Empire. Here an officer swings by in kilts in company with tall, sun-tanned, slouch-hatted Australians; there bargaining with an Arab for a shawl, is a Canadian; and in quick succession pass Italian, French, Egyptian and Indian Military officers. And the Navy is not absent,

for the blue uniforms of British, American, French, Italian and Japanese naval ratings provide a contrast which pleases the eye. There go a group of nurses, grey-clad British and Australians and blue-gowned V.A.D.'s. Intermixed is the civilian element, French, Greeks, Italr-ians, Syrians, Levantines and European-garbed Kopts, with the inevitable tarbush; and the natives, coal-black Soudanese, brown-tinted Berberines and Arabs in flowing galabiehs of all the colours imaginable.

In the road the traffic is just as strange. Closed-in conveyances carrying women wearing white yasmaks, through which ivory faces can be seen and over which peer the brightest of bright eyes, gazing wonderingly and enquiringly, donkey carts, camels loaded with enormous cargoes of green bersim, arabeahs and motor cars—all apparently inextricably mixed and confused—but all proceeding on their various ways without mishap; and the noise—the jargon of foreign tongues clashing with the cries of hawkers and the rattling of passing vehicles, which anywhere else would set your nerves on edge—here is simply and appropriately part of the play of which you, sitting back restfully in a wicker armchair, feel you are the sole and natural audience.

Bombay. F.H. Wickham.