She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. This happened after he ate. 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. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. She had to make sure, for the peace of her mind, that this was really the man. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference.
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