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. He refrained from pointing out that the case would be exactly the same if she was not a lady. Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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