ABSTRACT

DEMETRI’S HOTEL is like other houses of Damascus, with the rooms about a large courtyard, looking inwards upon a broad marble basin, where fountains copious and cool sprinkle soft music, with gentle splashings never ceasing; and little rivulets pour in as they gleam under the coloured sunbeams that dart through vine branches, and orange trees; and gaudy-huod dresses are flitting about—for it is the peoples’ clothes you see in the East, the faces of the fair are all closely bandaged up.