He seemed to deliberate. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. 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 should really like to find somewhere to stay, if it was only for a few nights. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over.
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