There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. 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 succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Marines. “I see the pointer,” she said.
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