He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. 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. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult.
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