” “I ought to have—all the same. 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. ’ She spread her hands. I’m turning into a big fat cow. . The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. But that title he would not endure. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. There was a hint of tears in her voice. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. "Go on. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least.
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