Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. 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. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. "Shall I shoot him?" "Yes! yes! put it to his ear!" cried Mrs. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him.
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