’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. Folks don’t like ’em. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. That is what I’ve had on my conscience. He saluted awkwardly. 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. You have to marry me. It’s a thing I’ve unaccountably overlooked. .
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