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. Good-bye aunt. But after that it was easy. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork.
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