White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. ’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ’ ‘Certainly he is not a friend,’ Melusine agreed, ‘but he has gone, after all. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. 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. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. I did think it could be done. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt.
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