Wood turned to look at him. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. 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. ‘Well, that depends. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. Later, she would sew it on.
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