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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. Monsieur Charvill, he has not the means to choose different. Her cheeks were aflame. You look like a movie star. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. He had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered.
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