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. She spoke with fluent enthusiasm. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s.
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