peak Arabic like French."

"Yes, I speak modern Arabic as easily as French. The language of the
Koran is different." And Beclere explained that there was no writing
done in the dialects. When an Arab wrote to another, he wrote in the
ancient language, which was understood everywhere.

"You have learned a little Arabic, I see," Beclere said, and Owen
foresaw endless dialogues between himself and Monsieur Beclere, who
would instruct him on all the points which he was interested in. The
orchards they were passing through (apricot, apple, and pear-trees)
were coming into blossom.

"I had expected oranges and lemons."

"They don't grow well here, but we have nearly all our own
vegetables--haricot-beans, potatoes, artichokes, peas."

"Of course there are no strawberries?"

"No, we don't get any strawberries. There is my house." And within a
grove of beautiful trees, under which one could sit, Owen caught
sight of a house, half Oriental, half European. He admired the flat
roofs and the domes, which he felt sure rose above darkened rooms,
where Beclere and those who lived with him slept in the afternoons.
"You must be tired after your long ride, and would like to have a
bath."

Owen followed Beclere through a courtyard, where a fountain sang in
dreamy heat and shade, bringing a little sensation of coolness into
the closed room, which did not strike him as being particularly
Moorish, notwithstanding the engraved brass lamps hanging from the
ceiling, and the Oriental carpet on the floor, and the screen inlaid
with mother-of-pearl. Owen did not know whether linen sheets were a
European convention, and could be admitted into an Eastern
dwelling-house, but he was not one of those who thought everything
should be in keeping. He liked incongruities, being an inveterate
romancist and only a bedouin by caprice. One appreciates sheets after
months of pilgrimage, and one appreciates a good meal after having
eaten nothing for a long while better than sand-goose roasted at the
camp fire. More than the pleasure of the table was the pleasure of
conversation with one speaking in his native language. Beclere's mind
interested him; it was so steady, it looked towards one point always.
That was his impression when he left his host after a talk lasting
till midnight; and, thinking of Beclere and his long journey to him,
he sat by his window watching stars of extraordinary brilliancy, and
breathing a fragrance rising from the tropical gard