He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. ” “Then I am sure,” Sir John declared, “that I shall not ask you. “Just remember, I have to make this up to you. ” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely. 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.
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