Her normally shiny hair was 143 stringy and flat. But not today. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. 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. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto.
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