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. I am having them to my own soirée on Monday. I want you to be my lover. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. “I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. “They have just taken this house from Lady Cellender.
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