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. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America.
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