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. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. I should say that you owed me considerable.
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