” “I can’t seem to get out of chairs without flashing my brassiere to the whole of Creation. This is a good piano. Well, one must hope, that was all. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. Prior to the great adventure, her mirrors had been the still pools in the rocks after the ebb. 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. He appeared suddenly from the infinite in the neighborhood of the Burlington Arcade, crossing the pavement toward her and with his eyes upon her. Then there was also the horse.
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