There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. Tell me that again. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. You never can tell. 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. We two. Then she examined with curiosity some knick-knacks upon a small round table by her side.
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