They received their guests in a huge, well-furnished room on the upper floor of a stone house built around a courtyard filled with flowers.  I think they were a little proud of the number of fierce-looking Arabs, who had traveled long distances in order to be present.  Ten Arab chieftains in full costume, with fifteen or twenty of their followers, all there at great expense of trouble, time and money, for friends sake, were, after all, something to feel a bit chesty about.  Every member of the Colony seemed able to talk Arabic like a native and, as they used to say in the up-state papers, a good time was being had by all.  The Near East adores ice-cream, and there was lots of it.

Two of the Arab chiefs were Christians; the rest were not.  The peace and war record of the Colony was what had brought them all there.  Hardly an Arab in the country was not the Colony’s debtor for disinterested help, direct or indirect, at some time in some way.  The American Colony was the one place in the country where a man of any creed could go and be sure that whatever he might say would not be used against him.  So they were talking their heads off.  Hot air and Arab politics have quite a lot in common.  But there was a broad desert-breath about it all.  It wasn’t like the little gusty yaps you hear in the city coffee-shops.  A lot of the talk was foolish, but it was all magnificent.

There was one sheikh named Mustapha ben Nasir dressed in a blue serge suit and patent-leather boots, with nothing to show his nationality except a striped silk head-dress with the camel-hair band around the forehead.  He was a handsome fellow, with a black beard trimmed to a point, and perfect manners, polished no doubt in a dozen countries, but still Eastern in slow, deferential dignity.  He could talk good French.  I fell in conversation with him.

The frankness with which treason is mooted, admitted and discussed in the Near East is one of the first things that amaze you.  They are so open about it that nobody takes them seriously.  Apparently it is only when they don’t talk treason openly that the ruling authorities get curious and make arrests.  To me, a total stranger, with nothing to recommend me but that for an hour or two that afternoon I was a guest of the American Colony, Mustapha ben Nasir made no bones whatever about the fact that the was being paid by the French to stir up feeling over Jordan against the British.

“I receive a monthly salary,” he boasted.  “I am just from Damascus, where the French Liaison-officer paid me and gave me some instructions.”

“Where is your home?” I asked him.

“At El-Kerak, in the mountains of Moab, across the Dead Sea.  I start this evening.  Will you come with me?”

“Je m’en bien garderai!”

He smiled.  “Myself, I am in favor of the British.  The French pay my expenses, that is all.  What we all want is an independent Arab government—­some say kingdom, some say republic.  If it is not time for that yet, then we would choose an American mandate.  But America has deserted us.  Failing America, we prefer the English for the present.  Anything except France!  We do not want to become a new Algeria.”