"No doubt you speak 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.
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