s.

Before him was ink and paper. He took up the pen. But after scrawling
and scribbling for ten minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and
arabesques, and the one single word Dowla (Empire).

He could not think: he could only dream. The soul of the East--The
mind of the West--the builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the
Idea, the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great race who
has fallen on evil days; the renaissance of Arabia; the reclaiming of
her land; the resuscitation of her glory;--and why not? especially if
backed with American millions and the love of a great woman. He is
enraptured. He 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 deliciously ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic
nor Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid reads the
poetry under each of them and translates it into English. Mrs. Gotfry
is charmed. Khalid is lost in thought. He lays the picture of
Saladin on the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently