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. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. “Excuse me a moment. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. We'll turn the tables upon 'em yet. And beyond this, Lady Lescelles, as you must know, recent events have set a good many people’s tongues wagging, and I am quite determined to live down all this scandal before I think of marrying any one. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy.
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