There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. All at once he saw a way out of the threatening doldrums. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile. She left for good after he fell asleep.
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