The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her assistance. 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. In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint.
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