‘Though he didn’t mean it. "My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared. “More than that, he arrived to-day at the boarding-house where I am staying, greeted me with a theatrical start, and claimed me—as his wife. 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. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. As if we didn’t know! The practical trouble is our ages.
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