can neither sleep nor think: he can but dream. He puts on his jubbah, refills his cigarette box, and walks out of his room. He paces up and down the hall, crowning his dream with wreaths of smoke. But the dim lights seemed to be ogling each other and smiling, as he passed. The clocks seemed to be casting pebbles at him. The silence horrified him. He pauses before a door. He knocks—knocks again.
The occupant of that room was not yet asleep. In fact, she, too, could not sleep. The clock in the hall outside had just struck one, and she was yet reading.
After inquiring who it was that knocked, she puts on a kimono and opens the door. She is surprised.
“Anything the matter with you?”
“No; but I can not sleep.”
“That is amusing. And do you take me for a soporific? If you think you can sleep here, stretch yourself on the couch and try.”
Saying which, she laughed and hurried back to her bed.
“I did not come to sleep.”
“What then? How lovely of you to wake me up so early.—No, no; don’t apologise. For truly, I too, could not sleep. You see, I was still reading. Sit on the couch there and talk to me.—Of course, you may smoke.—No, I prefer to sit in bed.”
Khalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On the table before him are some antique colour prints which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in the Bazaar. These one can only get in Damascus. And—strange coincidence!—they represented some of the heroes of Arabia—Antar, Ali, Saladin, Harun ar-Rashid—done in gorgeous colouring, and in that