She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. His face was downcast. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. 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. Has he not himself taken my daggers and my pistol and my knife? Alors, he has given me back my pistol and one dagger,’ she conceded conscientiously, ‘which is a very good thing. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog.
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