He seemed in two minds whether to let Suliman come in with me or not, but finally admitted him with a gruff admonition to keep still in one place and not talk.
The place was fairly full.

It was a square room, with one window high in the wall on David Street.

Around three sides, including that on which was the front door, ran a wooden seat furnished with thin cushions.

Facing the front door was another one leading to a dark hole in the rear, where pots were washed and rice was boiled; beside that door, occupying most of the length of the fourth wall, was a thing like an altar of dressed stone, on which the coffee was prepared in dozens of little copper pots.
The benches being pretty well occupied, I was about to squat down on the floor, but they made room for me close to the front door, so I squatted on the corner of the bench and tucked my legs under me.

Suliman dropped down on the floor in front of me with his head about level with my knees.
The other occupants of the room were all Syrian Arabs--not a Bedouin among them.