"Do you always dress as an Arab?"
"Yes, I have been here for thirty-one years, ever since I was fourteen." Owen looked at him.
"Here, in an oasis?"
"Yes, in an oasis, a great deal of which I have created for myself. The discovery of a Roman well enabled me to add many hundred hectares to my property.
"The rediscovery of a Roman well!"
"Yes. If the Sahara is barren, it is because there is no water." Owen seemed to be on the verge of hearing the most interesting things about underground lakes only twenty or thirty feet from the surface. "But I will tell you more about them another time."
Owen looked at Béclère again, thinking that he liked the broad, flat strip of forehead between the dark eyebrows, and the dark hair, streaked with grey, the eyes deep in the head, and of an acrid blackness like an Arab's; the long, thin nose like an Arab's—a face which could have had little difficulty in acquiring the Arab cast of feature; and there had been time enough to acquire it, though Béclère was not more than forty-five.
"No doubt you speak Arabic like French."
"Yes, I speak modern Arabic as easily as French. The language of the Koran is different." And Béclère 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," Béclère said, and Owen foresaw endless dialogues between himself and Monsieur Béclère, 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.