Here I rested awhile, passing the time in conversation with the woman of the house, a good-looking Kurd of not more than thirty years, who by the sensible custom of Kurdistan is free to go about unveiled, and hold all her dealings with men as if she were a reasoning being, conducting all her affairs herself, a type of the only Middle Eastern race whose women are almost as free as the women of Europe, their only restriction being that they shall not go to the bazaar, or if they do, they must cover their heads. In Persia, or among other Musulmans, for two strange men to live in a house full of women, as was this, would be an unheard of atrocity, but here it was thought no more of than such a thing in England. [Sidenote: RETURN TO SULAIMANIA] After eating a lunch of new bread, fresh from the oven, in leaves two feet across, with some “kebab” Hama brought from the bazaar, I set out to find Matti the Christian, who had shown himself so friendly before, and discovered him in his office with his younger brother Ismail, who assisted him. I had not been there a few minutes before Habib Badria appeared, and took his seat upon the bench outside the office, from which he could converse with the inmates; and I was introduced to a much older man, Antoine, and a younger one, Bihnan, who spoke French remarkably well. These were all the Mosul Christians in the caravanserai, and being just as inquisitive as anyone else, took the first opportunity of making the acquaintance of a stranger. They were quiet, well-mannered men, and finding that I had business, strolled off to their offices, with the exception of Habib Badria, who remained, being a special friend of Matti. Both of them advised me, as I had merchandise, to take a small house near the bazaar for a time, and live with my goods, and they both shut their offices and prepared to take me on a hunt for a suitable house. Apparently they were well informed, for, passing out of the caravanserai we traversed a bazaar, turned up a blind alley, at the end of which we came to a house which they wished to show me, and which I agreed to take. This was vacated by the death of the owner, a merchant who had been murdered by Arabs on the way to Bagdad. He had left in charge, when he left, his old mother, a pure-blooded Kurd, who gloried in her uncontaminated descent, constantly asserting that she was not a converted Jew like the rest of the Sulaimanians. Her house was built in imitation of Kurdish architecture as developed in Persia, a type common and growing commoner in Persia.