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It was eleven o'clock. "And so shall I," replied Edgeworth Bess. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. He had not considered this aspect of the business. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. 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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