’ Hilary’s brows shot up. 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. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. He had been very easy or she had been very lucky. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him.
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