“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. I want her to get forward, to set her among people who'll understand what to do with her. 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. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms.
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