She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. The servants had left the room. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand.
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