Pack on, Shakib; for whether at the Mena House, or in the hashish-dens of Cairo, the Future is drinking to thee, and dreaming of thee and thy School its opium dreams.
And Khalid, the while, sits impassive on his trunk, and Im-Hanna is cooking the last dinner of mujaddara .
Emigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of the three prominent features of Civilisation: namely, a little wealth, a few modern ideas, and many strange diseases. And of these three blessings our two Syrians together are plentifully endowed.
For Shakib is a type of the emigrant, who returns home prosperous in every sense of the word. A Book of Verse to lure Fame, a Letter of Credit to bribe her if necessary, and a double chin to praise the gods. This is a complete set of the prosperity, which Khalid knows not.
But he has in his lungs what Shakib the poet can not boast of; while in his trunk he carries but a little wearing apparel, his papers, and his blankets. And in his pocket, he has his ribbed silver cigarette case—the only object he can not part with—a heart-shaped locket with a little diamond star on its face—the only present he is bringing with him home—and a third-class passage across the Atlantic.
For Khalid will not sleep in a bunk, even though it be furnished with eiderdown cushions and tiger skins.
And since he is determined to pass his nights on deck, it matters little whether he travels first class, or second or tenth. Shakib, do what he may, cannot prevail upon him to accept the first-class passage he had bought in his name. “Let us not quarrel about this,” says he; “we shall be together on board the same ship, and that settles the question. Indeed, the worse way returning home must be ultimately the best. No, Shakib, it matters not how I travel, if I but get away quickly from this