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. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. "I cannot part with him," replied the widow, bursting into tears; "indeed, indeed, I cannot. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection.
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