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. His manner was deferential, even eager. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home. “I shall never be able to thank you. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. I have had no one but for you.
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