The floor was carpeted with rugs of Hamadan, and Matti sat upon one by his doorway, in front of a big Russian iron box that opened with a key as large as that of a stage jailer, and rang a bell three times in the process. As in most caravanserais in Sulaimania, the rooms are really nothing more than deep recesses across the front of which a wooden screen in three sections has been built. These sections open by sliding up, and are held in that position by a piece of iron hooked across the groove in which they travel. Matti’s immediate neighbours were also Mosul Christians, and opposite--for the office was in a long arcade that entered the serai--were the rooms of three Kurdish merchants, to whom I was introduced by Matti. In the custom of the place they had boldly come to enquire who the newcomer might be, and I had to answer a string of questions. These people spoke Persian quite well, and fortunately accepted my own version of affairs as true, and I became known there and then as Mirza Ghulam Husain of Shiraz. I was also introduced to one Habib Badria, a Mosul Christian, a man of extraordinary appearance for a man of Arab race. Fair and freckled of skin, his hair was that particular hue called “carroty,” and his moustache the same. His blue eyes and generally Scotch appearance made him appear most incongruous in his Arab dress and fez. And as if this had had an effect upon his nature, he evinced the most progressive ideas. Immediately he heard that I had been to Europe, he asked me to write for a snapshot camera, scented soap, a French dictionary, and some other Ferangi articles. He professed disgust with the clothing custom forced him to wear, and sighed for the delights of collar and cuffs. Despite these affectations, however, he turned out later to be an excellent and sincere friend.