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. Wood fancied he recognised. You’re a good friend. . ’ He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and brought out a packet of papers. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris.
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