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. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline. I want to be with you. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. “I don’t care a rap for remembering.
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