And Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window to let out Khalid and his smoke.
“Go, Khalid, and try to sleep. And if you can not sleep, try to write. And if you can not write, read. And if you can neither read nor write nor sleep, why, then, put on your shoes and go out for a walk. Good night. There. Good night. But don’t forget, we must visit Sheikh Taleb tomorrow.”
The astute Mrs. Gotfry might have added, And if you do not feel like walking, take a dip in the River Barada. But in her words, to be sure, were a douche cold enough for Khalid.
Now, to be just and comprehensive in our History we must record here that she, too, did not, and could not sleep that night. The thought that Khalid would make a good apostle of Bahaism and incidentally a good companion, insinuated itself between the lines on every page of the book she was trying to read.
On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who is introduced to us by Shakib in these words:
“A Muslim, like Socrates, who educates not by lesson, but by going about his business. He seldom deigns to write; and yet, his words are quoted by every writer of the day, and on every subject sacred and profane. His good is truly magnetic. He is a man who lives after his own mind and in his own robes; an Arab who prays after no Imam, but directly to Allah and his Apostle; a scholar who has more dryasdust knowledge on his finger ends than all the ulema of Cairo and Damascus; a philosopher who would not give an orange peel for the opinion of the world; an ascetic who flees celebrity as he would the plague; a sage who does not disdain to be a pedagogue; an eccentric withal to amuse even a Diogenes:—this is the noted Sheikh Taleb of Damascus, whom Mrs. Gotfry once met at Abbas Effendi’s in Akka, and whom she was desirous