Lucy’s bright tones pursued her. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. ” “Did it hurt when we did it?” His voice rose, inflamed with worry. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. 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. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest.
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