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. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. ‘It is the life I know. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. I did not know what I was saying. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. You have said a thousand times that there was no shame in you.
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